Mycah hesitated, beer-bottle-number-three a couple of inches away from her mouth. The blush tried to crawl up her throat to her face as she lifted her gaze from his lips to his narrowed blue-gray eyes. And if it hadn’t been beer-bottle-number-three, maybe that rush of heat would’ve met its destination, but a little liquid courage and a lot of I-don’t-give-a-damn went a long way toward eroding modesty.
Besides, Achilles hadn’t said those two words as other men would’ve—flirtatiously, with an invitation for her to tell him more about how hot she found him.
No, his words had been a statement of fact, as no-nonsense as his black Henley and scuffed boots. Almost a challenge...an accusation. Why did that have arousal eddying low in her belly?
“I am.” Challenge accepted. She sipped from her beer. “Why does that bother you? Because it does. Bother you, that is.”
His eyes narrowed even farther. “Because I’m not an animal in a zoo.”
She rocked back on the stool, only her fingers clutching the edge of the bar preventing her from losing her balance. Blinking, she gaped at him. Shocked. Stung. Angry.
Slowly twisting around, she signaled for the bartender. When the woman who’d been eye-banging Achilles all night approached, Mycah swirled a finger around his empty shot glass and nearly empty beer mug. “Another round for him, please. On me.” His eyebrows jacked down low over his bright gaze, but Mycah shot up a hand, forestalling any argument. “Oh, no, this is about me, not you.” Glancing at the woman behind the bar, Mycah flashed her a tight smile. “Please bring those drinks.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Achilles demanded on a low rumble that rippled over her skin, vibrated in her taut nipples and echoed lower, much lower.
That voice of thunder had been wreaking havoc on her all night, and though he’d pissed her off with that unfair comment about treating him like an animal, her body apparently didn’t give a damn.
“Hold on.” She drank from her beer, waiting until his shot of Jameson and Guinness had been replenished. Only then did she lean forward and meet his gaze, unflinching and all business. “Was she Black?” When he stared back at her, confusion flickering in his eyes, she explained, “The woman I’m the substitute for and getting thrown attitude at on her behalf. Was she Black?”
His scowl could’ve peeled the paint off the Longfellow Bridge. “What the fuck? Are you actually calling me racist?”
She crossed her legs, cocking her head to the side. “If the bigotry fits...”
“Woman, I know the lighting in this place is for shit, but this skin is brown. My mother was Hawaiian.”
Of course, she’d suspected Hawaiian or maybe another Polynesian culture. It was in his high forehead, bold cheekbones, beautiful wide mouth, his thick, dark hair, in his skin kissed by the sun and wind.
And yet, right now, she focused on none of that.
Was.
Thatwasshimmered with grief even asmotherandHawaiianrang with pride. Hurt for him echoed in her chest. For his loss. His pain.
“And your father?”
A shutter fell over his face, and that, too, echoed inside her.
“My father was an asshole.”
She nodded. God, did she get that. But that particular trait transcended race, religion, creed and culture.
“You’re not a misogynist. Or rather, you don’t resent all women. Because when I arrived, you and the bartender—” she dipped her head in the direction of the tattooed brunette on the other end of the bar “—were basically eye-banging each other—in a respectful way. So there’s something about me that’s had your back up from the moment I sat down and opened my mouth.”
He didn’t say anything, but he did knock back the shot of Jameson.
“The tattoos?” Mycah tapped her fingernails on the bar top, swinging from side to side on the stool, scrutinizing that impassive face. “But for all you know, I could have ink underneath this pantsuit...” The truth slammed into her, and she straightened. “That’s it, isn’t it? The pantsuit. You think I’m slumming it.”
He still didn’t say anything. Didn’t confirm her guess.
But he damn sure didn’t deny it, either.
And it hurt. More than it should considering he was a stranger, and she didn’t even know his last name.
“You don’t know me,” she whispered.
“Then tell me why you’re here.” He propped an arm on the bar and leaned forward until she could detect the ring of lighter blue around his dark irises. Until she could inhale his woodsy pine-and-fresh-rain scent underneath the beer. “And don’t lie this time,” he ordered in a soft tone that a less discerning person would’ve called kindness. And that person would be an idiot.
She was tempted to tell him to go fuck himself. That she didn’t owe him answers, and he didn’t deserve any part of her.
