I’m halfway through my forth drink when someone pokes my shoulder.
“Careful, sweetheart.”
The voice is low. Worn. The kind that’s lived too hard and didn’t regret much of it.
I turn, and there he is.
Up close he’s worse.
And so much better. His beard is trimmed but rough enough to look like it’ll scrape you raw if he gets too close. Ink, a violent black fan of tattoo work spreads from his throat down over his collarbones and across his chest like wings, with more color and shadow wrapped around his arms. A healed scar rides his collarbone, pale against muscle, like proof he doesn’t just talk tough, he’s paid for it.
His cut hangs over all that. When he reaches in and lifts my glass away from my fingers like he’s correcting a mistake, I catch the glint of that wedding ring again. Married. Taken. The kind of man I should back away from.
“That one’s catching up to you,” he says. “Fast.”
“I didn’t ask for a babysitter,” I fire back.
His mouth twitches. Not a smile. Something more dangerous.
“No,” he says. “You asked for trouble. Babysitting’s just a side effect.”
I reach for the glass. He holds it higher.
“Oh, come on,” I say. “I’m fine.”
He looks me dead in the eye, slow and thorough, like he’s cataloging sins.
“Darlin’, you’re wobbling like a barstool with a missing bolt.”
A flush whips through me. “You watch me wobble often?” I slur.
A few heads nearby turn. Laughter bubbles up behind us.
He leans closer, voice dropping. “First time tonight. I’m memorizing it.”
My stomach flips traitorously.
“And you are…?” I ask.
He grins then. Sharp. Mean. Sexy as hell.
“Oaks.”
Just that. Like it’s enough.
It is.
I nod. “Brittany.”
“I know,” he says.
That should not be hot.
It is.
“Your friend Lottie’s been glaring holes through me since you nearly kissed the jukebox,” he adds. “Figured I’d intercept before she decided to stab me with a pool cue.”
“I didn’t trip,” I say. “I gracefully descended.”
