“I saw you when I walked in and thought I’d sayhi.” There’s a fucking twinkle gleaming from his eyes like he jumped right off the silver screen to crowd my space at the bar. “So, hey, Willa. Happy birthday. How’s it going?”
The rusted hair color works for him, and with those hazel eyes—accented by a thin scar through his right eyebrow—he’s a towering Adonis with an auburn drop fade. The subtle waves don’t hurt either. This man is fine, okay? I can’t lie and say he’s not. And that’s the very logical reason I spill some of my drink when he winks at me. No sooner than the drops hit the bar top, he reaches for my napkin and wipes it up.
See?Too damn nice.
Batting a hand in the air, I turn back to my drink. “I’m good, Trevor. No need to worry about me. You can move along to someone more interesting. I’m just fine here by myself.”
“What makes you think I want to talk to someone else?”
“Oh, please.” I roll my eyes and take another sip of my drink, which must be going to my head, considering the words that flyout of my mouth. “Look, I know you have a crush or whatever, but trust me. I’m not your type. This place is crawling with the kind of women you like. There’s no need to keep me company. I’m good.”
“Type? I don’t have a type.”
“Yeah, okay.” The mocking in my voice oozes with sarcasm as I squint at him. He does, indeed, have a type.Case in point:my sister.
Goody-Two-Dimples keeps that friendly smile as he crosses his arms, and my eyes drop to his corded biceps. Most guys would be long gone by now, but he looks amused. “Since you think you know more about myself than I do, tell me. What does my type look like?”
“My sister, for starters…”
He lets out a good-natured belly laugh, as if that fact is illogical. “Pulling out one example of someone I went on a couple of dates with years ago hardly makes ‘a type.’ You always so quick with your assumptions?” He taps his fingers on the bar top as he watches me.
They might all be friends now, but Trevor dated Ashlie a couple of years ago, before she got together with Hunter. That’s a whole other story in itself, but I guess he’s technically right. They went on less than a handful of dates before deciding to stay friends. However, people are predictable, and dating patterns are easy to spot. Ash is short, slender, and perkier than a cup of morning coffee. It’s safe to say that’s who he goes for—my opposite. I’m taller than most men I meet, my thighs rub holes in every pair of jeans I own, and I polish the Fuck Off sign stamped on my forehead daily. Not that I particularly enjoy comparing myself to my sister, but when you grow up hearing everyone gush about all the things you’re not, old habits die hard.
Clearing my throat, I reach for my glass. “I don’t assume. I observe and assess. It’s perfectly fine to have a type, Trevor. Everyone does.”
“Oh?” His eyebrows arch over the amused glint in his eyes. “So what’s yours, then?”
“Easy. Stuffy and pretentious, with just a smidge of condescension.” I lift my drink to my lips. “Oh! And about a decade older than me.” My last relationship flashes through my mind, and I grimace. Even after two years, I don’t speak his name. He’s a partner at one of the biggest law firms in LA and an entire asshole who I couldn’t get enough of until it was too much. If mansplaining were a person, it’d be him. The one before him wasn’t any better, being a hedge fund manager. Same brand, different flavor. I’m fully aware I have issues, but I’m working on them. It is what it is.
Trevor shrugs. “Well, I guess there’s a first time for everything. I don’t have a type.”
Lips scrunched, I glare at him before scanning the room.I don’t have a typeis something you say when you want people to think you’re open and accepting, but no one’s really like that. Everyone has a type. I know I’m right about this, and I’m determined to prove it to him.
“Okay, her,” I say, thumbing over to a woman who fits my previous description to a T. She’s gorgeous. Petite, with a long, curly ponytail bobbing behind her as she chats excitedly to the people at her table.
He glances and tips a shoulder. “She’s alright.”
“Alright? She’s an absolute smokeshow. You mean to tell me you wouldn’t have made a beeline over to her if you saw her before you saw me?”
The tip of his tongue juts into the corner of his mouth as he studies me, nodding slowly. I’ve got him completely pegged, like I do with most people. He knows it, and so do I. “I saw her when I first walked in, Jim.” Leaning in, he slides one of my twists over my shoulder and smooths it down my back with the rest. A disloyal shiver travels through me, but I trap the ensuing gasp behind my lips. “She’s not the one who caught my attention tonight. You were…” The briefest flash of heat sparks in his eyes before he smiles that Boy Scout smile, and my smug resolve disintegrates like cotton candy.
I take a gulp from my glass and immediately choke on the last of my drink, unsure if the swirling in my head is from the liquor or the chiseled angles of his clean-shaven face. He chuckles as he sweeps my hair to the side and claps me on the back, leaving his hand on the bare cut-out of my dress while I catch my breath. My first instinct is to lean in to his warm touch, but an efficient hit of oxygen snaps me out of that.Fickle-ass hormones. “Your flirting won’t work on me. I’m not that drunk.”
Trevor laughs again and drops his hand to my lower back. My traitorous thighs clench, all but soothing the sudden pulsing between them while my body hijacks itself. All I can think about is the trail of lingering heat as tingles zing down to my toes.
“If you say so,” he whispers in my ear. The smell of Christmas, all clove and citrus, lingers as he turns back to the bar, leaving me to deal with the throbbing between my legs. “So…what are we drinking tonight?”
“We?”
“Yeah. No one should drink alone on their birthday. What’s in your glass?” He slides his hands over the bar top and damn it all to hell if I don’t notice how big they are.
CHAPTER FOUR
TREVOR
My shoulder tension eases with each sip of this tart cocktail. I wasn’t feeling the music festival, so I left early to shower off all the sand and sweat, hoping it would fix my attitude. It didn’t. The news I got from work yesterday has clawed its way into my mind, putting a damper on the entire weekend. Finding out your cheating ex is working for your company again lands you two Lemon Drop martinis deep with a third in the wings. I’m not a big drinker, but this has just enough sweetness to go down easily, taking my mind off the curly haired tornado I have to deal with on Monday.
I’d wandered into the bar tonight as soon as I heard the jazz music, hoping the crooning performance on stage would wash away the bullshit from work. Finding the quiet brown-eyed goddess was just a bonus—one I quickly snatched up. When I saw her sitting alone at the bar on her birthday, I had to see what that was about.
