“Oh, My Lanta! I’m so sorry,” I spluttered and reached for those tiny napkins that do jack all to clean up spilled drinks from a stranger whose blue eyes danced in the dim light of the bar.
The man shrugged off the mishap with a good-natured response. “Don’t worry about it, Goldilocks.” His voice had a tinge of an accent.
What kind of accent was that? Canadian? French? French Canadian?
Ugh. I had a hard time with languages unless it was semaphore.
The fifty vodka drinks probably didn’t help either. Despite the haze of alcohol and the blurry room, I homed in on the stranger's dark hair with scattered flecks of white, cut with precision. The deep tan of his skin showed slight crinkles around his temples, indicating he squinted at people a lot with hisstrikingly vivid eyes. Salt and pepper stubble covered a jaw that could cut glass, but I knew it would be soft and the perfect size for my hand.
What the hell was wrong with me?
“I don’t know, Goldilocks, but I think it has something to do with your stream of drinks?” The strange-accent man smirked.
I blinked back to reality.Damn it. I needed to use my inside voice. This is the trouble with growing up with too many siblings. You could say just about anything in the Jarett household, and no one would notice in the din of boisterousness.
I shook my head to clear thoughts of my brothers and sister. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to spit my drink all over you.”
His eyes lit up. “You can spit on me whenever you like.”
Which, of course, is what I did a second time.
Damn. It!
“Barkeep!” I yelled, grabbing more tiny napkins and blotting the stranger’s pants. Had I snort-laughed my drink on his crotch? No. Should I be feeling up a stranger’s junk without consent? Also no.
I was on a roll today.
“Name’s Dixon,” the bartender said, tossing me a dry towel that hit me in the chest. “FormerpolicedetectiveDixon. And if you keep spilling your drinks on my customers, I’ll have some of my Flamingo Cove P.D. friends escort you elsewhere in the back of a squad car.”
I cast a curious glance over my shoulder, where, sure enough, a table of Flamingo Cove’s finest stared at us. They were the only other patrons in the joint, crowded around two mismatched tables that balanced precariously on the black and white checkered floor.
One of the burly police officers, dressed in a crisp blue uniform, lightly rested his right hand on his sidearm, his eyes fixed on me as if anticipating trouble. His imposing figureshifted toward me, and I couldn't help but notice the subtle tension in his body as if he were prepared to spring into action at any moment. It was almost comical to think he was concerned about me causing a commotion. I hadn't realized I had made such a nefarious impression.
“She’s alright,” my human sponge remarked, waving to the crowd. “Working a few things out in her big brain.”
The bartender,Dixon, shook his head and muttered something about Cupid before disappearing through the swinging door to the kitchen.
“My name is Kendra, not Goldilocks,” I said, trying to regain my composure. That was difficult on a rickety barstool, and one flip of my hair nearly sent me to the floor. Instead of my face getting up close and personal with the checkered tile, I landed inhard as a freaking rockarms. And the man’s lap. Which also had something freaking rock-hard.
I scrambled back to my stool, muttering apologies.
“Okay.Kendra. You can call me Raff,” the rock-hard stranger rumbled beside me like a souped-up jetski revving its engine, waiting for me to climb on him.
Board! Climb onboard!
Down girl.
“Nice to meet you, Raff. What’s that short for?” I reached for my drink and found it empty.
Raff shrugged. “Nickname of sorts.”
“Oh-kay.” I waited for the rest, but apparently, Raff was a man of few words. “Hmm. Wow. Sucky story. Zero stars. Do not recommend.”
“Not much to tell, Goldilocks.” Raff motioned to Dixon, who had returned to his spot behind the bar. “Another round for my mate? And do you have any Starward single malt?”
Mate?Ah. Australian.
Unless I suddenly transported into a shifter romance.
