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“How’s everybody doing down here? Need anything?”
“I’ll take your number.”
“All right. I’m going to think of a number between one and one hundred. If you guess the correct one, I’ll give it to you.”
“Seventy-three.”
“Fifty-eight.”
“Fourteen.”
“Ninety-nine.”
“Twenty-five,” a deeper voice shouts from behind them.
I’m faced with the one and only Rhys Kucera.Goody.What’s better is he actually guessed the correct number.
“It was twenty-five, but you’re still not getting my number.”
RHYS
My ass parks right in front of where she’s pouring. She looks up to me and does a double take. The bottle she’s holding slips from her fingers. Hockey reflexes are a hell of a thing. I train at least five days a week to improve my reaction time, so reaching across the bar and snatching up the bottle before it drops is a lot easier than tracking eighty-mile-an-hour pucks.
“Thank you,” she says.
“Anytime.”
This might be one of the last times I get to speak with her after she finds out that Hat Trick Swayze is her asshole next door neighbor.
“Can I get you something?”
“Club soda with lime,” I mumble.
“Do you ever order the same drink twice?”
She’s been keeping tabs on me.
“I like to switch it up.”
She finishes pouring the beers for another customer, and after setting them in front of the man, he checks her out as she walks back toward me. I glare at him until he realizes he’s been caught. I’m not much better, I’ve already scoped her ass twice in the last two minutes. But I have a different relationship with her.
As she fills my glass with the soda gun, I attempt small talk.
“You behaving yourself tonight, Freya?”
She sets the drink in front of me and narrows her eyes.
“No.”
I smirk. She loves pushing my buttons as much as I love smashing hers. She’s the kind of trouble I’d like to take home and tie to my bed. I should be throwing money down and leaving. Better yet, I should’ve never shown up in the first place. This woman has a pull on me I can’t explain. It makes me crazy. Why is it so hard to walk away from her? I think I know the answer to that. Because she’s Queen of Tarts. And Queen of Tarts is the object of my obsession.
This tattooed, tough-as-nails woman has a gentle side. And I’m the only person in this whole fucking bar that’s seen it. She can be sweet and silly. She’s beautiful. Smart as hell. She’s scrappy; she likes a little fight. And so do I. No matter how many times I try to ignore her and this thing between us, the attraction sits there. Like a stubborn ball of sexual attraction that won’t budge. It’s impossible to leave her alone. I want to test her limits and see what she’s like when all her complex layers are pulled back.
“You really think you can rattle my cage with that?” she asks.
“I know I can.”
“You won’t. I eat boys like you for breakfast.”
