Flicking a glance over Achilles, the brunette hiked her chin at the woman next to him. “What can I get you?”
“I’ll have...” She narrowed her eyes, tapping a pale pink–painted finger against her tad-too-full bottom lip. “I’ll have the bacon cheeseburger with a side of onion rings. Make that an extra-large order. And a Budweiser.”
Well...damn.
As if she’d heard the astonished words in his head, she arched a dark eyebrow.
“They have wonderful hamburgers here and the best onion rings in Boston.” She dipped her head in the direction of the bartender, who disappeared through a swinging door on the other side of the bar. “She was right, you know. You might want some food. I recommend one of the burgers or the fish ’n’ chips. Make sure you’re sober enough for—” the barest hint of a smirk whispered over a corner of her mouth “—later.”
Was she flirting? If so, teasing him about fueling up to fuck another woman had to be one of the weirdest come-ons...or the hottest. Possibly both.
His dick twitched as she flicked a tight, honey-brown curl away from her cheek.
Definitely both.
Disgust for himself trickled through him, and he picked up his Guinness, gulping the sweet and bitter ale until nearly half of it disappeared before he settled the glass mug back on the bar top. But the cold alcohol did nothing to douse the flickers of lust in his gut. Not when wisps of her scent—an earthy musk carrying hints of lavender, cedar and something more elusive—drifted to him, taunting him. Not when a glance down ensnared him in the dichotomy of a lush thigh and a delicate ankle. One invited his hungry teeth and the other his gentle fingers.
He had no business being tempted by either.
Women like her... They only wanted one thing from men like him. And while he didn’t mind a night of hot, no-strings sex, it was being looked at like trash afterward that didn’t work for him. Being someone’s dirty secret tainted the soul, and that kind of stain was hell washing out.
She sighed, and out of the corner of his eye, he caught her folding a napkin until it formed a tiny square.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be so flippant or rude.” She broke off as the bartender reappeared and set her beer in front of her, removing the cap.
The woman smiled at her in thanks, and Achilles glanced away as another bolt of lust speared him in the chest. And lower. A dimple. Of fucking course. Because cheekbones as sharp as broken glass, eyes the color of melted dark chocolate, a mouth a shade too wide and a sinner’s prayer past too full weren’t enough. Because tight, springy curls the shade of sun-warmed honey wasn’t overkill. She needed dimples.
“I’m usually not so forward. I’m blaming it on jet lag.” She shook her head, picking up her beer and raising it to her lips.
And by all that was holy, he should’ve looked away. Shouldn’t have stared so openly, so...so eagerly at how that beautiful mouth pursed around the opening. Or how her delicate throat worked as she swallowed. His fingers tightened around the handle of his mug. Either that or do something that would get him booted out of the bar and possibly arrested. Like lean forward and wrap his hand around that elegant throat so he could feel every swallow against his palm. Feel the vibration of that husky contralto when she spoke.
He fixed his gaze on the rest of the ale in his glass. “Jet-lagged from where?”
He didn’t glimpse her surprise, but it crackled over him just the same. As did her soft delight when she said, “London. I was there on business, and you’d think after being away from home for a week the first thing I’d want to see is my own bed, but I can’t go—” She broke off, and Achilles glanced at her. But she didn’t continue the sentence, instead taking another sip, then setting the bottle on the bar, studying the dark brown glass with a small frown. But her expression cleared as she looked at him. “Anyway, I found myself craving a greasy burger and a beer from my favorite bar.”
As someone who’d learned early in life that detecting a lie could save him from being backhanded by whomever his mom happened to be dating, he could sense an untruth when he heard it.
“You sat down by me,” he said.
She nodded. “I did.”
“You started talking to me.”
The corner of her mouth twitched because the “uninvited” went unspoken but might as well as have been shouted to the ceiling. “True.”
“And you’re never going to see me again after tonight.”
“Also true.”
“So you don’t have to bother with bullshit. Either you tell me the truth or tell me you don’t want to get into it. But don’t lie.”
She stared at him, pretty lips parted. She wasn’t the only one surprised. He lived and worked alone for a reason: he didn’t really care for people. Liked talking to them even less. Developing computer software encompassed designing algorithms, producing code, testing applications and troubleshooting existing systems. Challenging, but it came down to numbers, to science.
Not emotions. Not baggage. Not history. Not on which side of the tracks a person resided.
People were messy as fuck and he wanted no part of them.
Which didn’t explain why he’d decided to engage Ms. Beacon Hill in conversation.
