He turned back toward me, startled. “Where?” He didn’t sound angry but surprised.
“Nothing.” I felt strangely comfortable next to him but equally tongue-tied.
I didn’t think I had ever met a guy so uniquely good-looking. He could have been a print model, but his teeth were slightly imperfect. I looked down his long, lean body and tried to picture what was underneath his clothes. He swallowed nervously, and I realized I was making him uncomfortable.
“This place is pretty old,” I said, trying to make conversation.
“I like old,” he replied.
“Well, if you’re worried about my germs, I’d consider this bar top and the dirty rag Chewbacca has been using to wipe it down.”
Lucian didn’t flinch. He glanced at my mouth like he was about to kiss me. “You’ve had a lot to drink tonight.”
Pointing at his chest and smiling, I said, “Pot,” then I pointed at mine and said, “kettle.”
He laughed, and I liked the sound of it. It was contagious.
“You got me,” he said.
“So, tell me why you really wouldn’t shake my hand?”
He stopped laughing, straightened his body, put his glass up, and drank the entire contents of it. This guy could put ’em away.
“Last one, I promise,” he said, pushing the glass back across the bar. This time, he did sound slightly affected by the alcohol.
The bartender shook his head but filled Lucian’s glass anyway, then he looked at me and said, “Will you vouch for me if this guy drops dead?”
“I’m as shocked as you are,” I told him.
Lucian ignored us, took a sip, set down the glass, swiveled his stool in my direction and stuck out his hand. “You’re right.” His voice was rougher, looser from the drink. “I was rude before. I’m Lucian. It’s nice to meet you.”
When his hand met mine, there was a spark of static electricity. We both pulled back.
“Ouch,” I squeaked.
He laughed. “Sorry, try again?”
His hand was warm and smooth. I felt energy in his grasp, almost like the warmth from our connected hands had begun traveling up my arm. I looked at my arm in disbelief just before Lucian yanked his hand back.
“That was weird,” I said.
“Uh-huh.” He was searching my eyes.
“Now tell my why you said ‘oh shit’ when you first saw me,” I said, my confidence growing with every sip of my bourbon. A high, deep dimple appeared on his right cheek. It was the only way I could tell he was smirking. “Well?” I pushed.
His mouth flattened; he took a gulp of whiskey and then set down his glass. Our eyes locked. “I said it because I was awestruck by your beauty.” He was starting to slur, but he still had an elegance about him. Something in his mannerisms was mature for his age and refined, not a typical barfly slugging whiskey after midnight in a dive.
“Oh,” was all I could think to say.
Facing forward, he put his attention back on his drink. When he spoke again, he didn’t turn to look at me. It was as though he was talking to no one at all. “You should call it a night, Evelyn.”
“Excuse me?” I hadn’t told him my name was Evelyn, but I assumed one could guess what Evey would be short for.
Yanking a wallet from his back pocket, he said to the bartender, “Close us out, please.”
When he threw his American Express across the bar, my jaw dropped to the floor. “Oh, I’m sorry, do we know each other? Do you actually think I’m going to leave with you?”
He finished all of his whiskey then picked up mine and finished that as well.
