Chapter one
Eira
His ass is all wrong.
My eyes narrow at the napkin in front of me, my nose scrunching as I try to make out where I messed up in the dim restaurant lighting. Paper napkins aren’t the easiest to draw on, especially with a ballpoint pen, so I took my time with every line to ensure perfection. And that’s why it’s irking me to find his ass all wrong.
I showed up at the bar almost an hour early for my best friend Holly’s engagement party—partially because I didn’t have time to check out the parking situation before today, and partially because I wanted to get a feel for the place before the party started. After twenty minutes of aimless people-watching, my eyes snagged on a man who made my heart gallop like a herd of wild horses in my chest.
Naturally, my first instinct was to dig through my purse for a pen to draw the mountain of a man who was hijacking every shred of my attention—working shoulders down, because I can’t quite make out the details of his face.
All six-foot-whatever, two hundred-plus pounds of him is wearing a navy button-up that tugs across his shoulders, and a pair of slacks tight enough I’m left with no choice but to imagine what he looks like underneath. Plunking an empty pint glass down on the bar top, he runs a hand through dark hair, letting it fall messy and tousled.
My attention shifts from the gorgeous beefcake in front of me to the drawing that’s committing him to my memory, and I begin delicately shading the dark hair on his exposed forearm. When I look back up, he’s gone.
With a surly exhale, I reach for a piece of bread to dunk in olive oil. The bangles littering my left arm chime together seconds before clanging off the wine glass brimming with water.
“Shit!” I jump out of my seat as the glass shatters across the table, water surging along every thread in the white tablecloth. “Shit, shit,shit.”
My dress is wet. My phone is wet. The people seated at the surrounding tables are staring. If tonight wasn’t my best friend’s engagement party, I’d be halfway out the door already.
“Are you okay?” A gruff voice rumbles through me like the vibration of an old steam train.
A man—theman; my muse with the great ass—towers over me. Close enough I feel his breath running through my hair as he leans in to grab my phone and wallet, and starts meticulously drying them with his shirtsleeve.
“Yeah. I’m just really wet.”
Ope.
Embarrassed heat prickles under my skin, and ass-man shoves my white leather wallet toward me with a small cough. His blessings in the genetics department extend beyond the perfect bubble butt, and I do my best to memorize every detail of his chiseled jaw and intense, azure eyes. It’ll take hours to getthe five o’clock shadow just right, but that’s an endeavour I’m willing to stay up all night for.
And when he leans in to help a server clear the mess, a wave of vanilla and tobacco crashes over me. I’m still tumbling beneath the surf, blissed out in the spicy yet sweet aroma, when his muffled voice snaps me back to reality.
A reality where ass-man is holding a slightly damp piece of paper featuring a somewhat risqué drawing of his physique.
“That’s… uh, that’s nothing. I’ll take that back, thanks.” I reach to grab it, but his arm jerks at the last second. Watching the twist of judgemental confusion in his dark eyebrows, I feel overwhelmed with the need to add, “We all have butts.”
We all have butts?
That was a…choice.
He snorts. “That we do.”
“Yours doesn’t actually have that flat spot, by the way.”
Foot, meet mouth.I wish I could say I’m usually more suave than this, but that’s wholly untrue.
“This is my butt? Hrmm…” Words falling out the side of his mouth, he gives the limp napkin another cursory glance. “I’d say I’m flattered, but I don’t love knowing a beautiful woman thinks my ass looks like that.”
“A crappy ballpoint pen isn’t exactly the best medium, especially for drawing on a paper napkin. It has everything to do with that, and nothing to do with…” I wave a hand in his direction.
“No, no. Aside from my missing head, this is an amazing drawing. I mean, look at the detail in my shoulder muscles. I refuse to blame this on your artistic abilities.” There’s a slight flex in his forearm when he twists the paper to show me my illustration—a new level of muscle definition and branched veins that even the world’s best artist couldn’t replicate. “Leads me to believe the problem is with my pants.”
He turns to thank the server for cleaning up my disaster, smoothly sliding a cash tip into the guy’s hand. I take a half-second to eye-fuck the ass-man. It’s definitelynotthe pants that are the problem here. He could make me sweat wearing a pair of oversized Hello Kitty pajamas.
“So,” he says, spinning around to catch me ogling him. “Is it the pants?”
“We-ell.” I tip my palms upward with a shrug, playing along with his flirty game. “Pretty hard to tell without knowing what you look like without them.”
