In the corner, a few college guys hoot about something, clustered around one guy’s phone. Work colleagues in their business wear gather around another table, slowly swirling their wineglasses in idle conversation.
The best part is the smell: vibrant coffee and the subtle twang of wine.
Weaving my way through the crowd, I make it to Brady’s side. He helps me up onto the stool with a hand.
An actual gentleman.
Dangerous.
“You made it. Gotta admit, I wondered if you’d ghost,” he says over the low, thudding music.
“And look like I’m scared of what? You?” I snort. I nod toward the group of ladies in their thirties and forties. “Someone had to save you from those wine moms. Total cougar pack over there.”
His deep chuckle should be lost in the noise, but it vibrates through me. I watch his throat bob with the overwhelming sense that I’ve already sealed my doom.
When he leans in, I do my best to ignore his scent, that citrusy sea cologne again mingled with testosterone. It’sunfairhow he smells like he just swaggered off a warm beach in Maui.
He’s dressed up for the occasion, I think, wearing charcoal slacks and an off-white button-down shirt rolled up at the sleeves.
I hate that I’m a sucker for rolled sleeves when men have muscles to show off. Especially when half the single men around here either don’t lift or still dress like they’re teenagers.
This man has guns. Sculpted, intense, and accented with a hint of a Celtic tattoo weaving up one bicep that makes him look even bigger.
Eyes on his face.
His face, Lena. Now.
This is the twenty-first century and I’m a sensible girl. We’re not animals fresh off some cheesy sexting conversation from an app.
Ihavestandards.
It’s just entertainment—something to take the edge off a long, beastly week.
“So how about that drink? I’ve got you covered tonight.”
“Only if I take the next round.” The words are too aggressive, but I can’t help myself. He might be inhumanly rich, but that doesn’t mean I’ll skimp on paying my way, outside the obligatory top-shelf drink he promised.
“Sure.” The corners of his eyes crinkle.
“Espresso martini. That’s their signature thing here,” I decide.
Best of both worlds. Who needs sleep, anyway?
“Good plan.” He gestures to the bartender and orders. While we’re waiting, he props his elbow against the table and looks at me again.
How does he do it?
Making me feel so small with just a glance?
I can’t lie—it’s a little unsettling.
Also a lot disconcerting when men this fit usually aren’t strong in the subtlety department. They’re prone to getting grabby rather than stripping me down with bedroom eyes.
Is this a thing rich guys practice? Flirting with just the eyes?
“Thanks for bringing Charlie home last week,” I say. “And, um, for saving me from getting knocked down by Sherry. Her owner swore he’d work on her manners for the last two years, and it still hasn’t happened.”
“She was just enthusiastic.” A small smile, but he shrugs. “You handled it well. I just broke your fall.”
