“Alright, folks,” he called. “Last call for raffle tickets!”
A cheer went up from one side of the room.
Somebody wolf-whistled.
Maya leaned closer to me, eyes glinting with something that immediately put me on alert. “Hey.”
“What?”
She lowered her voice, though not nearly enough to hide how entertained she was. “Don’t look right away.”
I stared at her.
That sentence had never once in human history been followed by a good time.
“What?” I repeated.
“That group of bikers keeps looking over here,” she said.
I blinked.
Then blinked again.
“What?”
“Casually,” she whispered. “Be casual.”
“I don’t know how to be casual when someone tells me to be casual.”
“Just look.”
Against my better judgment, I lifted my drink and let my gaze drift—not directly, because I did have some self-respect—but enough to see the table she meant.
Same table as before.
Same group.
And yes.
They were definitely looking over here.
Or more specifically, a few of them were looking at Maya, because of course they were, while one of them—
My stomach gave a strange, annoying little flip.
One of them was looking directly at me.
Again.
It was him.
The same man from before.
Still sitting back in his chair like the room bent around him instead of the other way around. Broad shoulders. Dark eyes. Black t-shirt pulled tight across a chest that looked unreasonably unfair. Leather cut open over it, front patches I couldn’t make out from this distance. Tattoos crawling over his forearms. A short beard that somehow made him look rougher and cleaner at the same time, which didn’t feel legal.
He didn’t glance away when I caught him.
Didn’t even pretend to.
