All heat. All pull. All him.
I glance up.
Andrew’s eyes lock on mine over the rim of the glass he’s sliding across the bar, right into the hands of some woman giggling at whatever bullshit he just fed her.
He entertains her,
but his gaze keeps falling back to me.
I can see it in his face.
He’s surprised I showed up.
Now he doesn’t have enough time to prepare.
Now he’s scrambling for what the fuck to say to get out of this mess.
I tap against my knee as I watch him.
He’s working the bar?—
foreplay poured into glasses,
slipped into grins, tucked inside small talk.
Every girl’s the center of his world
for ten seconds at a time.
Soft in the eyes.
Charming in the mouth.
Irresistible in the smile.
But his gaze keeps coming back to me,
keeping tabs, seeing if I left yet.
Bar clock ticks past 11:47.
I sit up straighter,
elbow on the table,
chin in palm.
My phone’s right there, in my purse, begging to be touched, but I can’t afford to lose focus or lower my guard.
Not when some guy in baby blue is hovering nearby, a martini sweating in one hand, intentions sweating out the other.
He doesn’t make a beeline.
He rocks on his feet, draws closer,
a few feet out, hand stuffed in his pocket.
He tips forward.
