He enters, pulling a cart behind him. Within a minute, he has a small table set up with a linen tablecloth, two fancy crystal glasses, and a bottle of whiskey. There’s a fancy charcuterie tray as well. That’s a lot to do for a bottle of booze, but I guess when it’s the expensive top-shelf stuff, it’s warranted.
When he’s finished and moves to leave, I reach for my purse and pull out my wallet to tip him. I can spare ten dollars, especially since Al paid for my drinks at the bar. He holds his hand up to stop me.
“No, ma’am, please. The gentleman has already provided a most generous gratuity.”
“Oh. Okay. Um… well, thank you for everything.”
He offers me a smile and a slight nod of his head and walks to the door. Why I follow him—like a creep—is beyond me. But I do.
He opens the door, steps through it, then turns to close it without allowing it to slam shut. He jumps, his eyes wide, when he finds me just a few feet from him.
I give him a slight wave goodbye. Awkward much?
“Thanks for coming.”
The man nods again but takes off down the hall. I don’t blame him. He was probably worried I’d follow him to the elevator.
When I turn back to face the room, Al is standing near the whiskey cart in a black T-shirt that isn’t tight, yet somehow still highlights his lean, muscular upper body. On his lower half, he’s wearing gray sweatpants, and damn, they look good on him.
After I force my eyes back to his face, his grin makes it obvious he knew I was checking him out. So, I deflect. I cock my head to the side and smile smugly.
“Thought you weren’t coming out in something slinky?”
“Huh?”
Good, I’ve confused him.
“Are you really going to tell me you don’t know that gray sweatpants do to women what G-strings and sexy corsets do to men?”
His deep, hearty laugh makes me realize what it truly means to feel weak in the knees.
Given said weak knees, I walk across the room and sit on the opulent, yet cozy, couch.
“Please, enlighten me about this theory of yours,” Al says, as he opens the whiskey and pours us each a glass.
I tuck my feet under me and nestle further into the sofa.
“Um, it’s not a theory. Clearly, whatever you’re reading isn’t romance, Al. Every steamy romance reader knows gray sweatpants are a woman’s kryptonite.”
“Steamy romance, huh? We’ll have to come back to that, but first, it’s time to introduce you to the experience of drinkingexcellent whiskey. You’ll never be able to drink that shit you were drinking again.”
“Well, no worries there because I would never let it cross my lips again, anyway. It was horrible.” I grimace, remembering the taste and the burn as the cheap whiskey raced down my throat.
When he approaches and extends a glass to me, I wrinkle my nose but take it.
“No ice?”
I typically hate warm beverages. I have one glass of hot black tea in the morning with a splash of creamer, and that’s it. Every once in a while, I’ll have a hot coffee. Everything else is ice cold.
Al releases a fake gasp. At least I think it’s fake.
“Betty, are you asking me to dilute the flavor of this fine whiskey?” He says the words with a reverberating growl that’s a mix between playful and sexy.
Shit, I feel that in places I probably shouldn’t.
Of course, I noticed he was attractive before this. Even in the dim light of the hotel bar, it was obvious. Then, when we walked to the elevator, I realized from the way he towered over me that he’s well over six feet tall. With the T-shirt and sweatpants combination, the five o’clock shadow, and his thick dark hair, the verdict is in: He’s hot. Sweltering hot. Add in that growl and I’m a goner. He might be the most attractive man I’ve ever seen in my life, and I’m not wearing whiskey glasses.
I catch myself tugging at my left earlobe. It’s an unconscious habit I have when I’m nervous or… or what? What exactly is this feeling? It’s reminiscent of excitement, but it’s been so long since I’ve had anything good to anticipate that I’m not sure if I can label it that. Regardless, with sinking into this luxurious couch—and probably the whiskey I had at the bar—I’m feeling quite relaxed.
