“And you,” she counters, “are twenty-seven, single, and allergic to indulgence. It’s your birthday and your favorite holiday. Let yourself feel good.”
I look around the terminal again. At the lights, music, and people heading somewhere warm and familiar. Maybe she’s right.
“Fine,” I relent. “One drink.”
Her grin widens. “That’s my girl.”
We turn the corner toward the elevators, chattering on about her trip. She fills me in on some details, but not all, since most of her work is very sensitive.
We pause to wait for the elevator, and when the doors slide open, I take a step forward but pause suddenly when I take in the person inside, causing Addison to bump into my shoulder.
“What—?” she starts, then follows my gaze.
Holy mother of all that is wonderfully and sinfully made. Who is this man?
He takes up space in a way that has nothing to do with size alone, though he’s big. Broad shoulders straining the seams of a dark jacket, long hair pulled back into a low ponytail that brushes the collar of his coat. A beard covers most of his face, thick and untrimmed, like he doesn’t bother with mirrors unless absolutely necessary.
His eyes are what stop me.
They’re dark. Not just brown—dark in a way that feels bottomless, like the light gets swallowed whole before it can find purchase. When they flick to mine, it’s brief, assessing, and sharp. Then he looks away just as quickly, like I’m nothing worth lingering on. Which, annoyingly, makes my pulse kick harder.
He steps aside without a word, making room for us, a long, hard case slung casually over one shoulder. Guitar, my brain supplies automatically. The shape fits, and the vibe almost does too. A rugged, broody, vaguely unapproachable musician who probably writes songs about loss and women who don’t call him back.
I step inside, Addison at my side, the doors sliding shut behind us with a soft chime. Addison reaches out to press the button for the floor the bar is on, but pulls her hand back. It seems we’re all headed to the same place.
The space suddenly feels smaller. Not because it actually is, but because he smells so good. Like cinnamon, my absolute favorite spicy scent. It’s comforting in a way that feels entirely unfair coming from someone who looks like he could break bones without breaking a sweat.
I inhale before I can stop myself. Addison notices.Of course she does.
She smirks, leaning in close. “You’re staring.”
“I am not,” I whisper back, mortified.
“You absolutely are. And he smells like Christmas. Your favorite kind of scent. You might as well be devouring him in your mind.”
“I’m not.”
“Bitch, please, I know that look only too well.” Her grin turns wicked. “Birthday gift from the universe?”
I shoot her a look, but my attention betrays me anyway, drifting back to him. He’s staring straight ahead now, jaw tight, one hand resting casually at his side like he’s perpetually ready for something to go wrong, the other one on the guitar case strap.
The elevator hums upward, and the silence stretches. I risk another glance, and he catches me this time.
Our eyes lock, and for a split second, the world narrows to just that—his gaze holding mine, unreadable and intense. Something shifts in his expression, something dark and curious, before he looks away again, as if whatever he saw wasn’t worth pursuing. Damn, why does his dismissal hurt?
The elevator dings, and he steps out without looking back, heading straight for the stairwell that leads outside instead of the glowing entrance to the bar. A musician who doesn’t drink before a show, apparently. Or maybe he’s not a musician at all. We step out after him.
Addison lets out a low whistle. “Well.”
“Don’t,” I warn.
“Oh, I’m doing,” she cheers. “Because that was criminal. Did you see his hands?”
“No.”
“Yes, you did.”
I did. She knows I have a thing for hands, and his were perfect—manly, rugged, veined, filled with callouses, and big enough to wrap around my neck.
