Right?
Right?
Oh lord, please let me be right.
Glancing up, I’m beyond relieved to see the bartender heading my way. If ever there were a time for a drink, it’s now.
He approaches with a smile, slapping down a napkin with Bourbon Bar written across the top in clean, gold script. Without saying a word, he turns, grabs a highball, and pours from a bottleof high-end whiskey. The deep-copper color alone tells me it’s the good stuff.
He sets the drink in front of me. Looks up.
And then… he winks.
Yup. That was definitely a wink.
I glance down at the drink. Then back up, confused—because, one, I never ordered anything, and two, what the hell was that wink about?
As if reading my thoughts, he flashes another grin, leans in slightly, and says—low and casual—“Courtesy of Mr. Garcia.”
You’ve got to be kidding me.
I swear under my breath. My hand flies through my gelled hair again, and this time, I actually forget to breathe.
After a moment, I reach for the highball and bring the glass to my lips. One cautious sip—and a sweet burn, laced with vanilla and caramel, rolls across my tongue. Smooth. Delicious. Potent. Exactly what my frayed nerves need.
With a heavy swallow and a heart pounding way too hard for this to be nothing, I glance over my shoulder and raise my glass toward the man I now know as Mr. Garcia.
Damn,this is awkward.
Our eyes lock—and I swear to fucking God, I feel it.
Desire.
Pouring off him like heat.
My fingers tighten around the glass as blood rushes south and my dick thickens, catching me completely off guard.
What the ever-loving fuck is going on with me tonight?
I swallow hard, ransacking my thoughts for any logical explanation as to why my body is reacting like this. Never—never—have I gotten this worked up from just a look. And yet… there’s a pulse, an actual fucking pulse, kicking behind my zipper.
For Christ’s sake, this is no joke.
Look, I’m a fashion model. I’ve been around gay men my whole career. They’re a dime a dozen in this industry—and I’m comfortable with that. Really, I am.
But I’m not gay.
Curious? Okay—sure. Who isn’t at some point?
You’d have to be blindanddead not to appreciate the male form. All those sharp angles and carved muscle. Rough skin, calloused hands, ink that tells stories without saying a word.
Jesus, that’s its own kind of drug.
And, yeah, I’ve got plenty myself. Art on my skin.
But that doesn’t make me?—
No. I’m notgay.
