Honestly, calling the Scoundrel homely is like saying that Alex Newell can sing. Like, sure,technicallyit’s true, but way to completely undersell it.
There are scuff marks on the floor where chairs have been moved and rearranged. Water marks on the countertop. The memories of gatherings linger in the furniture the way I remember Nonna’s sofa sagging in the middle. It’s as welcoming as Manny’s smile, as joyous as his laugh.
Problems are nursed here.
Lincoln places his elbow on the bar, looking pleased. “Or something. Have you been checking up on me?”
Of course I have. The man plays at being mysterious so hard that my best friend has spent years attempting to guess his middle name.
“No.”
Lincoln’s smile deepens, his piercing gray eyes sparkling with interest, causing butterflies to skitter wildly in my chest.
His hair is longer. A dark blond lock is pushed behind one ear, and the rest curves and swoops over his head like artist’s strokes, drawing softness around the strong lines of his face, and there’s a day’s worth of stubble making him look like the bad boy I’ve always been attracted to.
“I didn’t realize you two were acquainted,” Manny says, sounding excited by the prospect. I’m going to blame recent life-changing events for not putting two and two together until now. Of course they know each other. The accents really should have tipped me off.
Lincoln doesn’t take his eyes off me. “I’ve only had the pleasure once before.”
My face heats.
There was no pleasure, unless you count Lincoln’s aggressive flirting (and also ignore how much I enjoyed it).
“Briefly,” I say. “We’re basically strangers.”
Lincoln rises out of his seat in an easy glide and carries his beer to the seat beside me. He smells like spice and sweat, and it’s everything I like in a man.
“Let’s change that, shall we?”
I would seriously love it if my insides could stop reacting to him. Even if he would be fun to sleep with— and, oh god, he’d probably be the best sex I’d ever have— I don’t have time to wallow in heartbreak after he inevitably ghosts me. I’m too busy having a life crisis.
Lincoln will just need to take that chiseled jawline and those incredible shoulders and find someone else.
It won’t be hard. His posture suggests he’s a man who’s been taught to push his way through the world, knowing it will move for him. Tall and broad shouldered, his strength is not a suggestion but a fact, present in his steely eyes, the curve of his biceps, the hug of his clothes.
I’ve dated his type before. Fast to desire and even quicker to disappear after they’re satisfied.
The usual “hey, sweet thing. I’ve got just what you need.” No hate to that vibe, but I like a little effort beforehand, you know? A little… pizzazz to my foreplay. And to me, everything is foreplay.
His T-shirt shifts as he lifts his glass, and bullseye— a tattoo. We have a tattoo. Oh god, I think my kneecaps just melted. Either that or I’m swooning. It’s not just any tat, either. No, no. Lincoln Reginald Reeves (oh, nice alliteration) has a snake peeking out from under his shirt. How much of his chest is painted? Where does it go? Can I taste it? That’s probably more of a second date question.
Christ, those thighs are obscene.
Come on, girl.He’s blond, for heaven’s sake. I should know better.
“Can you do something about him?” I ask Manny, whose only response is to chuckle from where he’s mixing a cocktail for someone else. “Sorry, love. I know my cousin better than most, and he’s a hopeless case.”
Just as I suspected.
“Fine,” I say. “Keep your secrets, Lincoln Lionel Reeves.”
CHAPTER6
SAY YES; I WANT TO SEE WHAT HAPPENS
LINCOLN
Manny’s eyebrows take up residence near his hairline. “Lionel?” he says, “I’d say he’s more of a Cecily.” Great. What started as a guessing game I played with Darcy and Ivy’s best friend when they were kids is now going to be Manny’s latest way of taking the piss out of me.
