Busted. He saw me.
He did not yell for security, and he showed no flash of anger. He just stared me down from across the room, and his mouth tugged into this faint, lazy curve.
It was not a smile—more like amusement. The kind a cat gives a mouse.
He murmured something to the dude next to him, who shot me a quick glance and nodded. Then he headed straight for me.
One step, then two. My heartbeat drowned out the thumping EDM.
Screwed. What could be worse than getting caught red-handed snapping pics of a dude who looked like bad news on legs?
Was he gonna dump me in the Hudson River for the fishes?
My palms went slick with sweat, and the camera nearly slipped. I ducked my head, and I hid behind my hair as I wrestled with my beat-up backpack.
Crap, thezipper jammed.
After a frantic tug-of-war, I finally jammed the camera in, I spun on my heel, and I bolted.
But three steps in—a hand landed on my shoulder.
It burned hot, right through the thin fabric. I felt the heat of his palm, and I felt the grip of his fingers—not hard, but enough to root me in place.
"Evening, miss."
His voice rolled in from behind, low and magnetic, like velvet wrapped around a switchblade. It cut through the pounding music, it slithered into my ear, and it sent shivers straight down my spine.
I froze for a beat, my legs turned to jelly, and then I twisted around.
—And I realized he was way too close. I had to crane my neck to meet his eyes. His tall shadow swallowed me up, and it was laced with that woody cologne, cigar smoke, and whiskey vibe—wrapping around me like a vice.
God...
Up close, he was even more stupidly hot. Thick black hair tousled like he had raked his fingers through it. Heavy brows framed deep-set eyes, a straight nose stood proud, and a hard jaw sharpened the look. And that mouth—thin lips quirked up now in this half-smirk that dripped sin.
Every gut instinct screamed he was trouble—back the hell off.
But my legs would not budge.
My throat scratched like sandpaper, my sweaty grip slipped on the backpack strap, and I stammered, "G-good evening."
His gaze dipped to my white-knuckled hold on the bag, and then it flicked back to my face. Those eyes sliced right through me—I felt naked, exposed.
Then he stepped closer. "In a rush to go somewhere?"
I flinched back on reflex, my spine smacked the wall, and the cold plaster bit through my top, raising goosebumps everywhere.
I played it cool—or I tried. "Sir, I don't know what you mean. I was just leaving."
I spun to bolt, but he threw an arm up, and he braced the wallbeside me. I halted sharp, my nose brushed his sleeve, and that head-spinning scent hit harder. My breaths came fast and shallow.
We hung there, locked. I glanced up—he had his other hand jammed in his pocket, all casual dominance. He towered over me, too damn close; I could make out the flecks in those hazel eyes.
"What I mean is," he leaned in, and our faces hung inches apart—if he dipped another centimeter, he would be kissing me—"did you snap anything good?"
My heart hammered like a glitchy metronome.
"Wh-what? I don't—"
