“That’s great,” I managed.
“Let Baker know if anybody gives you any trouble.”
I eyed the five-foot-nothing, green-haired goon behind the counter and scoffed. The guy looked like he was barely out of high school, let alone old enough to be tending bar.
“Please.” I showed off the girth of my latest read. “I carry a hardcover romantasy book with me at all times. I can take care of myself.”
I pitied the person who came up against five hundred pages of orc smut. Their ass was grass.
About twenty minutes later, I had just reached the first spicy sex scene in my polyamorous orc romance when Baker set a fresh glass of wine down in front of me.
I stared down at the curious beverage. “Um, I didn’t order this,” I told him.
“I did.”
I turned to my left in time to see an attractive, thirtysomething man slide onto the barstool next to me.
Can’t a girl read her orc fucker book in peace?
It only took one quick scan of my admirer to know that I wasn’t interested. Everything about this guy screamed “douchey finance bro,” from the designer sneakers that I knew for a fact cost more than a month’s mortgage payment to that ridiculous fleece vest that every single one of them seemed to sport, regardless of how hot it was outside. Did they get a group discount from Patagonia or something?
“Thank you, but I’m driving tonight. And I already have a drink.” I smiled politely and gestured to the glass I’d been nursing for the last hour.
I didn’t drink to get drunk or buzzed, at least not anymore. I enjoyed the occasional glass of wine or fruity cocktail when the occasion called for it, but generally speaking, more than one of anything was likely to leave me with a lingering headache.
And no vest-loving, Patrick Bateman-idolizing d-bag was going to change my mind.
“Oh, c’mon,” he protested. “It’s just one more drink. Besides, he already poured it.” He leaned toward me in his seat before adding, “It would be rude not to drink it.”
Not as rude as throwing it in your face.
My lips twitched at the thought.
Ah, ah, ah. Consequences, Nessa.
Inner me was right. I couldn’t risk this dude’s pathetic attempt at a hookup escalating to something more. Especially not when both June and Clarke—aka my would-be “bail buddies”—were too busy falling in love. Who was going to bail me out of jail if a bar fight broke out after I drenched douche face in cabernet?
“I appreciate the gesture,” I told him, settling on politely letting him down. “But I’m going to pass. Have a great night.”
I turned back to my book, hoping that the glass of wine and the man who’d ordered it would evaporate into the night. I should have known it wouldn’t be that easy.
“Aw, don’t be like that,” he teased.
“I’m not being like anything,” I said, edging closer to losing my patience. “I’d just like to read my book.”
He scoffed. “Right, that’s why you’re at a bar.”
The sheer confidence of men astounded me. Apparently, simply existing as a woman in any public space—even when nose deep in a book and sans makeup—meant I was asking for attention. But I’d be damned if I was going to rot at home twenty-four seven for the sake of sparing men’s fragile egos.
“You’re not even going to tell me your name?” he asked when I ignored him. “Hello?”
And just when I thought he might take my not-so-subtle rejection and find another place to sit, a grimy palm reached out and snatched the book from my hands.Did he just—
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
He held the book up, just out of reach, taunting me with it like a twelve-year-old on the playground. “Oo, kitty has claws,” he teased. “I guess now you’llhaveto talk to me.”
Before I could decide whether to smack the stupid grin off his face—consequences be damned—a shadow fell over the bar, stunning my tormentor into silence.
