Stiles isn’t handsome in the conventional sense. That word is too tame for him. He’s more like a tall glass of mouth-watering maleness. His bone structure could be carved out of stone. His firmly etched mouth is full and wide, framed by a sleek goatee that resembles black felt. In contrast, his head is clean-shaven—his skin smooth and polished like teakwood.
Not every man could pull off the look, but on Stiles, it just added to that bad-boy appeal. When I reach him, he turns his head toward me. His expression holds no surprise. Of course, he’d known I was there. A former military man, Stiles was trained to be observant. But whether it’s training, his personality, or something else altogether, he registers zero emotion.
With an economy of movement, his gaze executes a quick once-over from my face to my blue uniform and back again, not revealing a single clue as to his thoughts.
“Ms. Sinclair.” He nods brusquely, but oh man, that voice. Graveled and rough, the unpaved sound travels from my ears to my toes and doesn’t miss a thing in between.
I smile and attempt to get a rise out of him. “Hi, Jasper.”
His eyes go an impossible shade darker, obscuring his pupils. It’s only recently that I learned J.D. stood for Jasper Dane when an article in the news hailed him as a hero. Until then, it had been a one-sided game of me trying to decipher the initials of the man who only went by Stiles. I would never have come up with Jasper, but oddly, it suits him.
“Nice to see you off duty,” I say.
He doesn’t answer, which causes me to fill the empty space. “I haven’t seen you at Royal’s before. Do you come here often?”
Jeez, Jordyn.I mentally slap my forehead. It sounds like such a cringy pickup line that I laugh out loud.
Stiles doesn’t laugh back or even crack a smile. I’ve never actually seen him smile. I imagine it’s all the more spectacular for being rare—like a solar eclipse.
“Lighten up, Jasper.”
“No one calls me that.”
“Good. I like being your only.”
He ignores the comment, looking anything but amused.
“I come here quite often,” I say, answering my own question. “Not on the weekends, though. I’m not a karaoke fan.” I make a gagging face. “But the burgers never disappoint. Have you tried them?”
“No.”
“You don’t know what you’re missing. I always get a double stack with two patties and a slice of Canadian bacon. That’s the clincher right there. And the spicy sauce.” I blow a chef’s kiss. “I usually head here after a game or practice. I play soccer and field hockey, but I only have time for soccer now. We had a game tonight.”
“That explains the uniform,” he says indulgently, lifting one size twelve, make that thirteen, shoe onto the low metal rung of his stool. “How did you do?”
“We lost. I was in a pissy mood because of it. But then I saw you.”
His face stays blank.
“How’s the shoulder?” I ask, sliding onto the seat next to him without an invitation. “All healed?”
“Yes.”
The last time I saw him, nearly two months ago, his arm was in a cast. “Thank you again for what you did.”
“It’s my job,” he says as if saving lives is no biggie.
I could have lost my best friend, Dee, if not for him. “We’re all still grateful.”
His gaze shifts away. Embarrassed by my praise, I assume. I let it go to keep things light. “What are you drinking?”
“Irish stout.” He raises the beer to his mouth. Even in motion, there’s a stillness about him. Not calm exactly, but measured.
I watch him take a long pull. His firm bottom lip kisses the neck of the bottle, and his strong throat works as he swallows.
“Dark beer’s too strong for my tastes,” I prattle on while he lowers his drink and stares at me. “I’m a pale ale girl all the way. This one’s a silky oat. Wanna try?”
“No, thank you.”
