“You okay?” Nick asks, smirking again.
“Yeah, I’m just remembering a night years ago when I had way too much tequila. I was on my way home from this crazy costume party—I was dressed as Hermione and—”
Nick’s phone rings, and he turns away from me to answer without a word. What is happening? The call must be urgent…maybe? His body language is making me think he’s trying to score a booty call or is a total mama’s boy and is checking in with his mother. Jane and her boyfriend are locking lips again, and I’m just standing here feeling awkward. I wait a beat, and Nick is still on the phone, and Jane is practically in her boyfriend’s lap now.
“I’m, uh, gonna find a seat by the bar,” I say, lowering the shot glass. A few seconds pass and no one looks my way. “Thanks for this.” I raise the glass and turn, walking toward the bar, feeling more and more awkward. I don’t want to have a pity party, but maybe there was something to Mike not wanting to commit. Nick answered a call mid-conversation.
Am I that boring?
I’m no supermodel but I think I’m decent enough to look at.
And I showered so I know I don’t stink.
I make it a few more paces before someone bumps into me, jerking my arm.
Whiskey sloshes out of the glass and spills down my chest. Dammit. Thank goodness it was only a shot and not a full drink at least. Holding my arms out, I look around for a napkin, stepping back to avoid the rowdy crowd in front of me.
But right as I move back, I bump into someone else. Tonight, obviously, is not my night. Teetering on tall heels, I start to lose my balance as I turn to apologize to the person I bumped. Strong hands grasp my shoulders, keeping me upright. I turn to see who saved me, and I open my mouth to tell him thank you, but the words die before they can leave my lips.
The man before me might possibly be the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen. Even in this dim light, his eyes are striking: sky blue with a rim of dark navy. His dark hair is effortlessly pushed away from his face, and the perfect amount of stubble covers his sharp jaw.
I need to step away. Break his magnetic gaze. Because a man this good-looking means nothing but trouble.
“Th…thanks,” I finally say, clutching the shot glass, still a little stunned. “I uh…I need a napkin.”
His full lips pull up into a smirk and he looks at my chest, watching a bead of whiskey roll between my breasts. “That’s a waste of perfectly good whiskey.”
He meets my eyes again, and that smirk turns into a cocky half-smile, one he knows looks beyond sexy. He’s aware of exactly what he’s doing, furthering the voice in the back of my head telling me to run far, far away. I’m new in town and don’t need his brand of trouble.
Though there’s no harm in having a little fun, right?
I swipe a finger across my chest and stick it in my mouth, tasting the whiskey. “It is. I should find the jerk who bumped into me and tell him that.”
“No need,” Blue Eyes says, reaching past me to grab a napkin off the bar top. “I’ll buy you another shot.” He hands me the napkin, eyes back on me as I blot up the spilled alcohol on my chest. “I’m Dean,” he says.
“And I’m…I’m…” Cursed. Damned to have another string of bad luck. Not looking to start anything new, especially with Mr. GQ who has “heartbreaker” written all over him. “I’m very glad I ditched my date and came here.”
What? Who said that? Rory Harris isn’t a flirt. It’s not for lack of trying, it’s for lack of skill, I’m willing to admit.
“Ohh, ouch. The poor guy.” Dean signals to the bartender and pulls out a stool for me.
“Yeah, it was set up by a friend, actually, and the guy seemed like a total loser. I dodged a bullet.” I smooth out my dress and take a seat on the stool. “I’m talking in his thirties, still lives with his parents, no career ambition or anything, and an overall boring, whiny man-child from what I was told.”
Dean laughs. “Why would you agree to go out with him?”
Laughing as well, I shake my head. “I guess I felt a little sorry for him and was trying to help out the friend who set the date up.”
“His loss is my gain,” Dean says as the bartender comes over. “Do you want anything else?”
“A glass of Moscato would be great, actually.”
“Pink?”
“Red, if they have it.”
“They do.”
A pretty blonde bartender comes over and takes our order. She seems very familiar with Dean, which doesn’t matter. He could come here every day, drink himself silly, and take home a different woman every night and it wouldn’t matter.