As Mike tries—and fails—to explain the varying degrees of intoxication to the stumbling groom, I frantically pour six glasses of wine, stacking them onto a tray with practiced precision. My heart races, already anticipating the disaster waiting to happen. If this groom and his groomsmen decide to start a drunken brawl over a glass of puke, I want no part of it.
I take a deep breath and step out from behind the bar.
And then it happens.
The drunk in the golden crown stumbles into me—hard. My tray catapults upward. A spectacular arc of red splashes across the front of my shirt. And just for good measure, the entire mess drenches the man standing to my left.
"Oh my God, I'm so sorry!" I gasp, my cheeks burning with embarrassment. I drop the tray onto the bar and grab a towel, frantically dabbing at the red wine stain now splashed across the front of the poor guy’s jeans. I squat down, feverishly blotting at the mess, my mind racing for a better apology. Something that doesn’t sound completely ridiculous.
A deep, gravelly voice rumbles above me. "Don't I deserve dinner before you feel me up?"
The words hit me like a slap, and horror washes over me as I process exactly what I’ve been doing—and where my hands have been.
Oh. My. God.
Mortified, I shoot upright, heart pounding. My gaze snaps up to his face… except it doesn’t. It lands on his chest. His impossibly broad, solid, very-much-in-my-personal-space chest. I swallow hard, forcing myself to look higher. And higher. By the time my gaze finally reaches his face, my pulse is racing. This man has to be at least six foot four, while I am… well, nowhere near that. And then, as my brain finally catches up to my eyes, my heart slams to a dead stop.
I stare, completely useless, as reality shifts around me.
He’s gorgeous.
Breathtaking.
"I'm so . . ." The words die on my tongue. Apparently, he’s stolen not just my breath but any ability to form an intelligent sentence. “So…”
Yeah, I’ve got nothing.
His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, revealing muscular, heavily inked forearms. His dark hair is a tousled mess, like he’s raked his hands through it in frustration.
Which, to be fair, makes sense. He just had six full glasses of merlot dumped all over him. But somehow, the wine doesn’t even matter. It’s impossible to notice anything buthim. His jaw is all sharp angles, chiseled to perfection, clenched tight as if he’s holding back words—or maybe a reaction. Dark, swirling tattoos trail down his neck and disappear beneath the collar of his shirt. When he folds his arms across his chest, the movement draws my gaze lower, and I swallow hard.
He looks like trouble.
The really fun kind.
I blink, struggling to remember what I’m supposed to be doing. Something about cleaning up…? Getting drink orders…? Scale him like a rock wall?
Nope. Still nothing.
My brain is officially out of order.
He leans in, his gaze dark and guarded. "Looks like we both need to get out of our clothes."
Whoa. That escalated fast. Faster than I could’ve hoped for, but honestly? I’mherefor it.
His smirk deepens as he gestures toward the front of my shirt.
I glance down and gasp.
I look like a walking crime scene.
Behind me, the drunk groom stumbles past again, this time held up by Mike and about a dozen other guys, all steering him toward the door. Oh, good. Maybe the wedding will still turn out nice.
I turn back toTrouble, meeting his gaze, and sigh.
His eyes are a mesmerizing hazel, flecked with tiny hints of green and gold.
Our children would be gorgeous.
