“Whoa.” He catches it by the neck and returns it to me. His eyes dip to the minute amount left and his lips crimp with judgment. They probably should, but it doesn’t mean I like it. “Looks like you’ve got quite the party going on.”
“Something like that.” And in an instant, my defenses go up. They say first impressions set the tone for the length of a relationship no matter how miniscule the connection might be, and here I’ve practically announced I’m a drunk with voyeuristic tendencies.
He laughs as if he were prying into my thoughts. His eyes squint in a way that makes his entire face look far friendlier than it might actually be. “Since you seem to know more about me than I do you, how about I take you to the Blue Crab for drinks? I’ll drive since you’re a little ahead of me.”
I glance in the direction of Loveless’ own surf and turf five-star dining experience. I happen to know firsthand that they have a well-stocked bar in that establishment, and apparently Abel does, too.
“I’ll need a minute to freshen up.” My thighs rub over one another as if I were sending him a subliminal sexual cue, and my face heats at the thought. I am, but that’s beside the point. “But first, you owe me something, and I’m ready to collect.”
His brows hike clear into his forehead, his eyes widen, ocean blue, puddle in springtime blue. The McCarthys all have those same mesmerizing eyes. My good friend, Kennedy, has recently saddled herself with his brother, Caleb. I’ve spent enough time with the two of them to get a good look at those McCarthy blue eyes to admire them properly.
“The apology.” He winces. “Yes”—he glances back at the lake as if it were his accomplice—“I’m sorry. I just—I was blowing off some steam. The lake is perfect this time of night and, honestly, I didn’t think anyone could see me.” He shoots the hint of an accusing stare my way, and his lips curl up at the tips.
“You don’t sound very sorry.” There’s a laugh brewing in my chest, but I’m too stubborn to give it. The Grey Goose has loosened me up just enough to make me brash and bold, and a touch offensive if need be. “And I’m sorry, too. I’m a lot of things, but I’m no Peeping Tom.” Liar, liar vodka on fire.
“Technically, you wouldn’t be a Peeping Tom.” He ticks his head to the side in a cocky manner that makes me like him just a little bit more. Abel should know. He’s a high-powered attorney right along with the rest of the McCarthys. “I was out in the open. In fact, if I knew someone as beautiful as you were watching, I might have put on a show.” He sheds an easy grin at this raunchy conclusion, and I’m right back to worshipping him.
“Well then.” I let the screen snap closed between us. “It looks like you owe me two apologies now. I’d better get dressed before you can get to three.”
And with that, I slam the door in his face.
* * *
Abel McCarthy drives a fully loaded,brand new, fresh-from-the-factory Range Rover. Of course, he does. I try not to smirk on the nice ride. We exchange not much more than polite hellos on our short little jaunt over to the Blue Crab, and he helps me out like the gentleman he is. He’s donned a casual tweed jacket with a pair of chinos. A dress shirt and a tie. It’s odd seeing him in so many layers—sophisticated at that, compared to the nude review I’ve been subjected to for the last few weeks. In all honesty, I’m not sure which version I like better. There is something about a well-dressed man who can easily intoxicate me. Not to mention there is always the plus side of stripping clean a well-dressed man, and something in me very much yearns to yank on his long, svelte tie.
“Valet? I’m impressed.” Really impressed, considering self-parking is just around the back, but I suppose when you have as much money as the McCarthys, something as incidental as valet is the norm.
Abel entwines his arm through mine, the fabric of his dress shirt pulling taut in all the right places while the thick scent of his cologne encapsulates me in its warmth. A well-scented man is a close second to a well-dressed man when it comes to intoxicating the masses. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear Abel was determined to land me horizontal.
Abel holds the door to the restaurant open for me, and for a brief moment our eyes lock as if they had words of their own to exchange. My body explodes in a fit of biology, pupils dilating, blood pressure spiking, quivering thighs, and every last part of me wants to test drive those full beautiful lips—among other, far more intrusive, parts.
“Can I help you?” a bright-eyed woman with an electric blue hip-hugging dress greets us, but it’s neither her perky demeanor nor her day-glow eyes that distract me from Abel. It’s that enormous burgeoning belly of hers that hangs low and heavy as if that child she’s carrying is about to drop to her feet. My heart sinks at the sight, and instinctively my eyes flit to the left toward the liquor hovel where I’ve wet my lips more times than I care to count.
“We’re headed to the bar,” Abel whispers to her as if it were a secret, and I can’t help but note his eyes riding down to her belly as well. Hard not to miss. It’s ironic, because even when a baby is no longer in your life, it’s hard not to miss. The familial ties that bind are far stronger than the human mind can fathom. I know this. Its truths are embedded over my heart like fire over stone.
We head straight to the bar, denying the young, gorgeous waitresses that bear cleavage in hopes of big tips the proper chance to ogle him. No sooner do we step inside than everyone equipped with ovaries snaps their head at attention. Yes, Abel is most certainly in for the time of his life here in Loveless. And the thought of a feeding frenzy turns my stomach. Port University turned into a feeding frenzy, and I quickly usher all thoughts of Port and its bloody aftermath out of my mind. That’s the one thing I promised myself when I moved back to Loveless—all thoughts of Port and its horrors were banished from this mountain. I’d rather put my hand in a blender and turn it into a smoothie than relive that nightmare.
“Hey—you okay?” Abel leans in as if to get a better look at me, and I’m quick to blink away any errant tears that might have come to the pity party. Just because I’ve left Port and all of its miseries behind doesn’t mean I’m not wallowing in self-pity. Nope. That lake has become my counselor—every last bottle, my best friend.
“I’m fine,” I say, hopping on a seat at the end of the bar.
“You look”—he offers a wistful shake of the head as he takes me in—“stunning. I’m assuming that’s the norm for you.” He gives a little wink and I bounce with a laugh.
“Thank you. Compliments will get you everywhere.” I wink right back and his features harden to stone as if my quasi-proposition weren’t needed nor wanted.
The air stiffens uncomfortably between us. It’s loud in here, too many voices trying to compete with the stale music pumping from the speakers. A sprinkling of couples dance on the parquet patch in the middle of the room. Mostly drunk women who have kicked off their heels, their hair already sticking to their skin like wet spaghetti—older, cougars, all looking for a young buck to take out on a quick ride. It’s ladies’ night, as the sign at the door suggested, so they’re hopeful in their final clearance dresses, their lips a shade too dark, ageing them by miles more than necessary. “You do realize, the Blue Crab is where tourists come to pay their dues before getting laid,” I shout up over the music and few stray heads turn my way.
Abel rumbles out a laugh, but you can see a veil of sadness there underneath. “I promise I have only chaste intentions with you.” The smile melts right off his face. “With anyone.” He says that last part under his breath, and suddenly I’m both intrigued and a touch disappointed.
I clear my throat, determined to rectify this awkward place we’ve landed in. “What I meant to add is, the Poison Barrel is just down the road. It’s perfectly sinful and seedy. Trust me, nobody there is hoping to be wined and dined before crawling into the sack. In fact, most of the time they don’t bother crawling anywhere but the restroom. Just FYI in the event you decide to troll the lakeside offerings. No need to weigh down your credit card—and they never expect a tip.” Dear God. Is that the best I could do? I’ve gone from propositioning him to offering up ways for him to score with other women. I really need to reevaluate my game—or concede to the fact I don’t have one.
“Poison Barrel? No thank you.” He winces. “Not my scene.”
“I didn’t think it would be.” I can’t help but giggle at the thought. Abel McCarthy is a wine ’em and dine ’em diehard, and there’s something to be respected about that. We put in our orders, a Long Island Iced Tea for me and a scotch neat for him. Abel turns to face me and I do the same, leaving only a couple feet of distance between this dark-haired god and me. A very greedy part of me screams for me to close the gap entirely.
“So tell me everything I need to know about Loveless.” He leans in and I can smell the liquor on his breath, a fiery invitation in and of itself. “It’s been a long while since I’ve ventured this way. Start with how you know me.”
“Is it always about you?” I tease. Stupid. With men it’s always about them. I never was a decent flirt. Some girls get by effortlessly with a toss of their hair, but I’ve always felt the need to verbally entice my prey toward the steel trap set for them between my legs.
