I feel him before I see him. Like gravity shifting.
My skin is warm. My head is buzzy. My confidence is doing that dangerous thing where it gets louder the more I drink.
“I’m going to the bathroom,” I announce suddenly.
“And then?” Lena asks.
“And then,” I say, already grabbing my purse, “I’m doing something irresponsible.”
She grins. “Godspeed.”
The bathroom line is mercifully short. I pee, wash my hands, check my lipstick, and stare at myself in the mirror longer than necessary. My cheeks are flushed. My eyes are bright. My smile looks a little wicked.
Yeah. Definitely had one too many beers.
When I step back out, instead of heading to the booth, I make a beeline for the bar. “Tequila,” I tell Ryan, planting my hands on the counter. “The good one.”
He lifts a brow. “You sure?”
“Very.”
He pours it, slides the shot toward me, salt and lime following. I’m just reaching for it when someone steps up beside me.
Close.
Not crowding. Intentional. Like he knows exactly how much space to take and chooses this much on purpose. Heat rolls off him, steady and solid, and my body reacts before my brain catches up. I don’t have to look to know who it is.
“Careful,” he says, voice low and close, meant just for me. “Tequila makes confident women forget how dangerous they are.”
I turn slowly.
He’s closer than I expect. Blond hair pulled back, loose strands brushing his temple. Leather vest open over a worn T-shirt stretched tight across his chest. His eyes are darker up close, sharp and assessing, like he’s been paying attention longer than I realized.
I lift my chin. “Bold of you to assume I forget.”
The corner of his mouth lifts. Slow. Appreciative. “Fair.”
I take the shot without breaking eye contact. Salt. Burn. Lime. When I set the glass down, he’s still watching me, gaze unapologetic now, dragging over my mouth, my throat, the line of my chest like he’s mapping something he plans to revisit.
“Tied game,” he says.
“Again,” I reply. “Which means you’re about to lose.”
A quiet laugh rumbles out of him. “You always this sure of yourself?”
“Only when I’m right.”
I angle my body toward him, resting one hip against the bar, feeling bold enough not to pretend this isn’t happening. “Your team’s rattled.”
His eyes flick to my right arm, slow and deliberate, tracing the ink from shoulder to wrist. He doesn’t hide it. “You’ve got good taste in tattoos.”
Something in his tone tightens low in my stomach. “You should see the stories behind them.”
“Wouldn’t mind,” he says. “Eventually.”
Eventually.
He steps closer. This time, he does touch me. Just barely. His fingers brush my wrist, catching against my bracelets, lingering where my pulse jumps like it’s betraying me.
