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“It is, isn’t it?”
That got to him.
He turned to me, giving me his full attention and, with it, the full force of those devastating eyes. This was it—my moment to succeed or fail epically.
I leaned over the counter, aware of how high my short dress rose, and grabbed a bottle of top-shelf amaretto and sour mix. Leaning closer to him, I held steady eye contact as I poured sour mix into his glass, followed by the almond whiskey.
My hand covered his, and together, we swirled the glass, mixing the whiskey sour with the steady movement. I held my breath as he took a sip of it, downing a finger in one impressive gulp.
His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, the movement far more erotic than it should have been.
I forced myself not to avert my eyes.
“How’d you know?” Whiskey coated his lower lip.
His tongue swiped across the skin, cleaning it in a way that ripped the air from my throat and left me fatally winded.
I tried and failed to tear my eyes away from his mouth. “I tasted it on your lips.”
The same lips I couldn’t stop staring at.
I was being unprofessional.
I was getting drawn in by his allure, and I had no excuse.
Bastiano Romano was about as delightful as a positive STD test result, yet here I was, distracted, intoxicated, and engrossed. The equivalent of spreading my legs and begging for gonorrhea.
“Are you in the habit of coming into bars and putting your lips on random strangers?” He paused, disdain passing over his features. “Anyone ever tell you you’re a classy gal?”
And on top of his lack of charm, he was a full-blown jerk.
I held back my scowl, forcing myself to pretend he didn’t affect me. “I don’t recall ever asking for your opinion.”
“I don’t recall giving you my consent.”
“And I don’t recall you pulling away.”
He laughed at that, but his laughter was drier than sandpaper.
“This has got to be the worst job interview I’ve ever partaken in.” He slowed his words, his tone dripping with condescension. “Have you ever had a job?”
I ignored his jab and leaned away from him, feeling exposed and three steps behind. “How do you know I want a job?”
“You looked around when you entered the place, but you stopped as soon as your eyes landed on me; you just fixed me a whiskey sour with amaretto; and you have the tip of your resume hanging out of your purse.”
Jesus Christ, he had made me as soon as I’d entered the room.
Did he notice these details about everyone or was it just me?
I bit back a scoff at my arrogance. Surely it wasn’t just me, but the alternative was almost unbelievable.
I was a trained FBI agent, and even I sometimes missed things. Granted, Wilks usually assigned me to such insignificant cases, I had virtually no experiences I could brag about.
I studied his eyes, wondering what they took in. “Are you always this observant?”
“Only when I’m breathing.”
He finished his drink and slid the glass my way, a silent demand for me to make him another drink.
