“Yes, surviving the day.” I take a sip. “What about you? You look like someone who either conquered Wall Street or broke up with his girlfriend in a dramatic restaurant scene.”
“No girlfriend,” he says. His eyes hold mine deliberately. “I’m not the conquering type either.”
“Mm, sure you’re not.” I take another sip of my drink, my eyes never leaving his.
He tilts his head, studying me. “You sound like you don’t believe me.”
“I don’t believe most men until there’s evidence.”
That pulls a full smile from him. It’s slow, wicked, and the kind of smile that knows exactly what it does to a woman.
“Maybe I’m the exception.”
“Nobody is the exception.”
“Then let me buy your next drink and prove you wrong.”
“Bold.”
“Accurate.”
I take another sip to buy time, because the air between us is doing that sparkly thing that only happens in movies or romance novels or… apparently… bars with expensive lighting.
“What’s your name?” I finally ask.
“Jaxon,” he says. “And you?”
“Ruby.”
He repeats it like he’s tasting it. “Ruby. That suits you.”
His voice wraps around me, low and appreciative, and my entire body reacts way too quickly.
“Careful,” I tell him. “You sound like you’re flirting.”
“I am.”
I choke on my drink. “That’s very forward.”
“Good.” His eyes travel slowly down my body and back up. “I’d hate to be misunderstood.”
I press my thighs together under the bar; my pulse is going wild. This is ridiculous, this is insane, and this is textbook terrible decision territory.
“You’re dangerous,” I say.
“Not to you.” He leans in slightly. “Unless you want me to be.”
My breath catches, holy hell. I should walk away, I know I should definitely walk away.
Instead, I hear myself say, “You don’t even know me.”
“Not yet.” His hand brushes my knee, subtle but deliberate. “But I’d like to.”
I exhale shakily. “And what exactly does that mean?”
“It means,” he says, lowering his voice until it slides down my spine, “I want one night with you. No expectations. No pressure. Just two people who clearly want the same thing.”
My heart stutters.
