I shrugged. “I’ve watched a game or two.”
“You sure have.” A slow, sexy wink accompanied his words.
With someone else, that move might have come off as kind of silly. Instead, that wink left me hot.
He signaled the bartender for another beer. “You want another? What are you drinking?”
“A lemon drop, but I’m done. Two’s my limit so I can drive myself home.”
“The lady here will have a water, please,” he said when the bartender delivered his beer.
“Thank you.” By not pushing me to keep drinking, the man scored major points and made me want to know more about him. With a tilt of my head, I studied him from beneath my brows. “What are you majoring in?”
“Art and graphic design.”
The way he straightened his shoulders when he said it made me think someone had given him a hard time about his major. I had to admit, I expected something like kinesthetics or personal training, which was wildly stereotypical of me considering my punk-rock style and business major.
Touring his sculpted arms with my eyes, I noted the absence of tats. “I thought art majors liked to decorate themselves.”
“We do.” His wolfish grin drew me closer. “But my art is private.”
“Is that right? How private?”
It had been a while since I’d flirted with a stranger in a bar, but from the minute we locked gazes in the mirror not long after I sat down, I’d sensed a connection with this man.
His unusually light green eyes darkened to a mossy color that sent an arrow of sensation straight to my core. “Too private to show you in here.”
“That’s a bummer.” Crunching on a cube of ice to cool myself off, I clocked his disappointment. “Maybe you can describe it then.”
He shifted, his inner thigh lightly brushing my outer thigh, subtly caging me in. The move sent a shiver through me in direct opposition to the expression of pure innocence on his handsome face. “I have two below the waistband of my boxers.”
Blinking hard, I asked, “Why?”
Deep, velvety laughter enveloped me. “Not there, Piper. Jeez. Give me a little credit for a sense of self-preservation.”
The corner of my mouth tipped up. “You play football and talk about self-preservation.”
“I take very good care of myself.” Those arresting eyes twinkled. “Certain parts most especially.”
Delicately tracing the scrapes on his hand, I said, “I can see that.” I could also see how the hairs on his forearm stood to attention when I touched his skin.
Interesting.
Glancing down at where I continued to explore his battle wounds, he grinned. “I’ve been told I have nice... hands.”
“You’re a funny guy, Wyatt Baxter.” Signaling the bartender, I reached for my purse. “Thanks again for making my otherwise shitty day better.”
“Wait. You’re leaving?” His crestfallen expression cracked me up. Pulling his phone from his back pocket, he checked the time. “It’s only ten.” Waggling his brows, he said, “You have hours before you turn into a pumpkin, Cinderella.”
“Ha, ha,” I wrinkled my nose at him. “I have a nine o’clock lab, and I don’t want to repeat today’s fiasco.”
Covering my hand holding my debit card, he sobered. “Hey, I got this.” When I raised a brow, he added, “No strings. No expectations.”
He fished his wallet from the front pocket of his jeans. Beneath his touch, I relaxed, the gentle pressure of his hand more reassuring than commanding.
The bartender’s eyes darted between us, then he offered his card reader to Wyatt who paid our tab.
“Entertaining and generous.” I smiled as I slid off my stool and held out my hand. “It truly was nice to meet you.”
