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I can’t ask him to dance.
“Do it!” she mouths before carrying on with her phone call.
A low, rumbling laugh has me turning back to the man giving me his attention.
“We’ll have an espresso martini.” Mr. D and H gestures at the bartender, who’s only just pouring the tequilas. “Glenfiddich 50—no ice—and two tequilas: one orange and one lime.”
Gaze narrowing on mine, he comes closer and asks, “Would you like anything else? Water maybe?”
With his proximity, all I can see is his mouth. My fingers itch to scratch at his thick stubble, and when he breathes out, I devour his expelled breath greedily—almost choking on the smoked oaky air.
“That’s all.”
A moment goes by where I take him in. I roam my sight over the sharp contours of his face, sculpted lips, and perfect Roman nose. There’s a kind of familiar kindling in my mind, but I don’t know if it’s the alcohol or the dim lights…I can’t put my finger on what it is.
“Have we met before?”
Chuckling, he hands me one of the tequila shooters. The orange slice sits on the thickly salt-crusted rim.
“It’s New York—there’s no such thing as strangers. You’ve either been face-to-face or in the same room as a person a handful of times before you actually meet them.” Raising his own shot, he clinks it to mine, watching while I lick across the rim of my glass. He does the same, and we both shoot the warming tart liquid.
Sucking the remainder of the salt and lime from his lips, he hums before he says, “Nice to meet you…”
“Lacie,” I blurt.
I’m not sure why I lie, but I do, and I don’t feel in the least terrible about it. In fact, the thought of spending time with this man without him knowing who I am thrills me. Maybe it’s the aftereffect of the tequila, but my insides fizz and my core pulses with the quirk of his brow.
Reaching across the narrowing space between us, he swipes his thumb down the fullest part of my lip to my chin. Without removing his heated gaze from mine, he takes it to his mouth and sucks the side of it.
“Henry.” Handing me the espresso martini, he takes his own drink, and then just as he guided me to the bar before, he sweeps me across the busy bar to a glass-ensconced corner.
The view is spectacular. Overlooking a dark Central Park, the lights on the other side appear like fairy lights suspended from the black sky. And still, it’s not enough to hold my attention. I just want to look at Henry.
Henry.
Something about the name doesn’t seem right. Like it doesn’t fit him. Wrong almost, but then the old regality of it makes sense. Everything about him is majestic—even the forward actions. Like licking his thumb after touching me. Or the way his body molds mine without physically touching me.
“What’s your story, Lacie?” The lull of my friend’s name on his lips makes me regret not giving him mine. I’m jealous of the way the two syllables drip with sex and seduction.
I’m not sure whether he truly is trying to seduce me, but if he is, it’s working. I’m primed and ready.
Ask him to dance.
Blinking back at him, I swallow down the request for a dance, and instead I ask, “My story?”
“Why is a woman like you drinking in a bar filled with girls chasing fame and money?” The luring depth of his onyx stare traps me in a speechless second.
“Celebrating.”
“Let me guess…” he breathes, coming closer. “A promotion?”
The words are a sucker punch that stokes the anger lingering in the pit of my stomach. There’s a cryptic tilt to Henry’s crooked grin that’s wicked. Almost like he already knows all the shit that’s happened in the last month and his question is but a way to keep me talking.
“Actually, no. Not a promotion. My asshole fiancé stole that from me.”
Henry takes my drink and sits it on the high table along with his. “He’s a sack of shit, and you probably deserve better.”
“Probably?” Pressing closer to him, I rock back on my heels so I can see his full face. And again, that bolt of familiarity shoots straight through me. Twisting my insides, lighting my senses until every single one of my pores burns and the urge to touch him is impossible to resist.
