Where was I?
Right, the blonde. The one who’s looking at me like she wants to pour maple syrup on my abs and devour me like a stack of flapjacks. What the hell just happened?
“Dax,” I manage to spit out. “Dax Kensington. And you are?”
“Lisa Michaels.” She extends a manicured hand, and I’m not sure if I’m supposed to kiss it or shake it. I settle for the handshake, then notice my knuckles are grease-stained from working on my bike this morning. Fuck.
Lisa notices, too, but instead of gasping with prissy horror and drawing her hand back, she meets my eyes again and gives me that calculating smile.
“Dax,” she says. “What do you do for fun?”
It’s not the question I expected from her. Not “what do you do for a living” or “do you prefer mutual funds or blue- chip stocks,” and it takes me a moment to answer.
“Well, I’m really into competitive duck herding, but I also enjoy train-surfing and extreme ironing.”
It’s a dickhead answer, not just because I’m being a jackass, but because I’m guessing the ironing thing isn’t too far off the mark of what Lisa Michaels really does for fun. Her outfit looks like she gets up to press it once an hour to eliminate unsightly wrinkles.
She surprises me by tossing all that shiny gold hair and laughing. “Oh, you’re a real smart-ass, hmm? You seem like a man who needs to be taught manners.”
Across the table, Lisa’s two companions exchange a worried glance. One of them clears her throat and gives me an apologetic look. “Our sister is, um…going through a rough time.”
The other one nods at Lisa. “And she’s not really used to drinks that are quite so…stiff.”
Is it my imagination, or did that chick just glance at my crotch? I don’t have time to ponder it because Lisa’s talking again, and damn if the woman doesn’t yank my attention like she’s got it on a choke chain.
“My sisters are right,” she says as she picks up her martini and takes a ladylike sip. “But I suppose one could posit that there hasn’t been nearly enough stiff or dirty in my life thus far.”
Did she really just say “posit” and “thus” in the same sentence as “stiff” and “dirty?” Who the hell is this chick? And why the fuck do I care?
I tap the stem of her martini glass. “How many of those have you had?”
She sets it down on the table, reaches under the table and grabs my knee. Her green eyes lock with mine, and it shocks me enough that I almost drop my beer.
“Enough to take you home with me right now and do unspeakable things all night long.” She frowns, possibly replaying those words in her head and not liking the sound of them. “Wait, I didn’t mean to imply I’d have to be drunk in order to?—”
“One,” her sister interjects, smiling a little as she shakes her head. “Lisa has only had the one drink.”
“And no, she’s not crazy,” the other sister adds helpfully, tossing out the sort of fond smile you’d reserve for a nutty aunt who just gnawed the drumstick off the turkey at Thanksgiving dinner. “Present display notwithstanding.”
Lisa shoots them a disdainful look, but there’s more warmth in it than actual anger. It’s clear these three are tight. I’m still a little mind-whacked from her hand on my knee and the words she just said a few seconds ago.
Enough to take you home with me right now and do unspeakable things all night long.
“I’m sorry, did you just proposition me?” I ask.
Lisa nods, looking a little surprised by it herself. “Yes. Yes, I did. Is that a problem?”
I think about it a second. “You’re not married?”
“Of course not.” She gives me a haughty eyebrow lift.
“Or drunk?”
She scoffs. “Hardly.”
I study her, trying to figure out the angle. “Is this some sort of grudge fuck?”
She looks me right in the eye, an unexpected challenge in those green depths. “Would that be a problem for you?”
