He gives me a small tap on my ass.
I untangle myself from his hold, forcing a neutral expression. "It’s not a problem. I need the tip money." However small it is.
Sidestepping away, I turn my attention to the gorgeous monster of a man still watching me on the other side of the bar top. “Another one?” I ask.
“Sure,” he rumbles. His gaze lingers on Mike as he walks away—sharp and assessing, like a predator watching prey. I don’t know why I find that incredibly hot, but I do. I’ll unpack that later. Maybe call my therapist. But right now, all I can do is stand here, wondering what it would feel like to have his big, tattooed hands on me. And those dark, voracious eyes stalking me down.
Taylor was right.
It’s been way too long since I’ve had sex.
“So, what brings you to Atlantic City?” I ask, realizing a second too late how stupid the question is as I slide another beer in front of him.
“Work,” he replies, lifting the glass to his lips. His eyes stay locked on mine as he drinks.
I swallow hard. “That’s a pretty intense stare you’ve got there,” I blurt. It’s the kind of look that feels like a challenge—like he’s daring me to ask more, just so he can refuse to answer.
But I’m not going to ask. I’m never going to see this guy again, and I’d rather not ruin my fantasy of him if he turns out to be, I don’t know, an accountant fromBoring, Maryland.
He sets his glass down slowly, his gaze still fixed on mine. Then one corner of his mouth lifts, curling into a half-smile that transforms his entire face into something boyish and devastatingly beautiful. “Let me guess,” he murmurs. “You’re not intimidated, are you?”
“A little,” I admit. “But I think that’s the appeal, isn’t it?”
He responds with a low grunt, then immediately picks up his phone, effectively dismissing me.
Something low in my belly flutters. Most sane women would say,Screw anyone who dismisses you and makes you feel like you aren’t good enough. My answer to that is typically,I do. That’s pretty much my exact type.
“How long are you in town for?” I ask, unable to help myself. He’s just too gorgeous, and talking to him is a welcome distraction from low bank balances and family drama.
“A few more days.” A perfect vague, no-strings-attached answer.
My mind immediately starts to wander.Would he be up for…
“Are you staying in the Rum and Room?” I ask, a little shameless, a little reckless.
“Yes.” His lips curl into a mischievous grin, his gaze trailing down my body before flicking back up to meet mine.
“I’ve always wondered what the rooms look like in this place,” I muse, letting my eyes drift to his mouth, already imagining how it would feel on mine.
“Bet I could help with that,” he murmurs, his grin turning wicked. But just as the tension crackles between us, his gaze drops to the bar top, a flicker of amusement in his expression. “You know someone’s been trying to call you the entire time I’ve been sitting here.”
“Yeah, I’ve been ignoring it the entire time you’ve been sitting here.” I push the phone away. It’s still my father calling me from that same unknown number.
Heneedsmore money. And Taylor? She texted me sheneedsmore time. Neither of them care about what I need.
“Boyfriend?” he asks, arching one eyebrow.
I wrinkle my nose. “Ew, no. Who needs one of those?”
He holds my gaze, his hazel eyes keeping me rooted in place. "Really? No boyfriend?"
“Nope.”
He leans in, a wicked glint in his eyes. “Not even the ass slapper?”
Heat rushes to my cheeks, but I shake my head. "Definitely not a boyfriend." Though, I admit shamelessly, "Just a one-time mistake . . . okay, maybe a few times. But can you blame me? Between work and everything else, I barely have time for myself, let alone dating. And who would want to date someone like me? I’m a mess, that's what I am. Would I date me?”
I pause, arms crossed, tapping my chin. "Fuck that. I would. I would date thefuckout of me. I’d be outside my apartment at dawn, in a long trench coat and a Clash T-shirt, holding a boombox over my fucking head."
