AllFreeNovel
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I’ve heard many watered-down versions ofI’m not looking for a relationship. Usually it’sI’m waiting for the right womanorI’m not ready to settle down yet.
None of those prepared responses have encompassed the same undercurrent of certainty as those two words.
“Bachelor party, huh? You bailed?”
“I got a work call. Needed a minute—and a drink—after it.”
“Your boss is difficult?” Making assumptions seems to get more out of him.
“Understatement,” he mutters into his glass of whiskey.
I spin my stool, drawn in by his broodiness for some inexplicable reason. I’m used to guys coveting my attention, as conceited as that sounds. Offering me drinks and compliments and interest. This genuine indifference is refreshing. Intriguing.
“I’ll do you one better,” I say. “My boss is demanding, overbearing, and healsohappens to be my father. So I can’t turn down a last-minute detour to Las Vegas, for example, on the way back to LA after visiting my best friend.”
He glances at me, then, and a glimmer of interest interrupts the staid expression.
Detachment shifts into something else. I feel his eyes trace my features before they trail down to the cleavage my dress teases at.
One corner of his mouth rises. An inch this time. Closer to actual amusement. The improvement feels like a victory, and I’m not sure why. Maybe because he looks like someone unaccustomed to smiling for show. Like a man who doesn’t laugh just to put others at ease.
“You work for your dad?” he asks.
“Yeah.” I mean to add more to my response, but his eyes drop to my legs and it’s hard to remember what I was going to say.
Attraction crackles between us, like lightning in a summer storm. The sparks feel raw and tangible. He’s not shy or bashful about looking, the way some guys are. His appraisal is purposeful and methodical as his eyes trace up my bare legs, not lingering on a single spot but missing nothing.
My thighs squeeze together when our gazes collide again. He has piercing, shrewd eyes. Paired with messy brown hair, a hint of stubble, and a chiseled jaw, his appearance is as striking as his presence.
“Dumb decision,” he says.
It takes me a few seconds to remember what we’re discussing. “Yep.”
The bartender sets a fresh martini down.
I thank her and grab the thin glass stem, tilting the glass toward him until the liquidalmostspills over the rim. “Cheers.”
When I glance over, he’s still looking at me. I can’t get any read on what he’s thinking. There’s no arrogance or irritation. No interest or dismissiveness. Just silent scrutiny.
Eventually, he holds out a hand. His fancy suit suggests he has an important office job, but his hand is calloused and tanned, like he does more than sit at a desk all day. “I’m Oliver.”
I press my palm against his, suppressing a shiver when his grip closes around my hand. I’m imagining those long, sure fingers brushing my skin in other places. “Hannah.”
Since he didn’t share a last name, I don’t either.
That’s why people come to Vegas, right? To shed their inhibitions and be a different, wilder version of themselves.
I clutch back when his grip tightens. This feels more like an intimidation tactic than flirting, but my racing heart is reacting regardless. My insides are in a riot simply because this gorgeous, mysterious man is touching me.
Oliver continues studying me.
I stare back, feeling like I’m sitting beneath a spotlight.
I resist the urge to shift or blink. To say something and fracture this moment that feels important for some reason.
He drops my hand, then turns back to his drink like our conversation never happened. The words are a blur in my head. I was more focused on him than what he was saying. I exhale and scooch back onto my stool, trying to regain my composure.
“What do you do?”
