He leans into me, and I lean back, breaking my spine to get out of the way while trying to not fall out of my seat.
“Thas’ good, pet. So, drink then?”
I’m done. Beyond done. I’m tired, this cocktailsucks, and my feet hurt from the heels I’ve had on all day. I can’t be responsible for what I do or say as incandescent feminine rage slithers over my body like a shield.
I drizzle my tone with honey. “Pet? How…cute. I could walk you down the street by my belt, and you wouldthankme for the honor. If anyone here is a bitch, it’s you. Learn that no meansfuck offand apologize to your wife when you get home for being an absolute pig. I suggest you sober up, drink some water, and go sleep off this embarrassment.” He pales at the mention of his wife, trying to hide the ring I clocked on his finger by stuffing it in his jacket pocket.
He shoots up from his barstool, face red and puffy with anger, and takes a step toward me. I start to move off my stool, but before I can, a tattooed arm from my left comes out of nowhere, stopping the drunk in his tracks. The mystery man steps in front of me, fully blocking the other from seeing or reaching me. It also affords me a delicious view of his back—broad and tall, very tall. I’m not short by any stretch of the imagination, and he still towers over me at my five-foot-seven.
“She said to piss off, mate.” His voice is deep, threaded with the promise of physical violence. Something in me purrs to life, making me desperate to match a face to the seductive sound. It’s apparently effective in more ways than the one, too, because the drunk actually leaves, just like that.
A scoff crawls up my throat. “Of course he’ll listen to a fucking man.” I plop back down onto my barstool and signal the bartender for another martini.
When he turns around, I blink once. Twice. A third time, because…holy shit. I lived in LA for nearly a decade, encountered some of the most beautiful people you could imagine, but none of them hold a candle tohim. He has the most striking blue eyes that glow like bioluminescence, a jawline men in LA pay thousands for at prestigious medspas, and a gorgeous head of deep brown hair set against sun tanned skin.
How is one that tan in a country that rarely sees the sun?
“I’m really sorry about him. We’re not all like that here, I promise. I hope you don’t let it ruin your visit.” I don’t correct his assumption that I don’t live here.
“Thanks for stepping in,” I reply with gratitude.
The smile he gives me is so disarming, I can feel my pulse start to speed up. “I shouldn’t have had to,” he says genuinely. “You had it handled. I was trying not to piss myself laughing at the look on his face when you laid him out.”
This incites a rumble of laughter, and I realize belatedly the noise is coming fromme. Jesus, has it been so long since I’ve laughed that I didn’t even recognize my own? I take a rather large gulp of my cocktail to avoid thinking about that sad fact.
He must take my silence as disinterest in the conversation he was trying to strike up and says, “Right, well, I’ll leave you to enjoy your evening.”
He taps his hand against the counter, making to leave, when I blurt out, “Would you like to join me?”
The words startle me, and clearly, I’ve startled him, because he’s quiet for a moment before smiling broadly and pulling out the stool next to mine to take a seat. He orders a whisky from a passing bartender after getting settled and turns to face me.
“What brings you to town?” he asks.
“Work.”
“And what do you do for work?”
I hate this question, because people rarely take me seriously when I try to explain it to them. They check out the second I mention the social media aspect of the job, completely disregarding the part where I tell them I’m the CEO of my own brand and have a master’s degree in business.
I settle for vague, not wanting this stranger to judge me for some odd reason. “I own a few businesses. You?”
A pause. “Finance…mainly.” He looks away from me while taking a sip of the drink the server set down for him a moment before.
I cock my head to the side, studying him and dragging my gaze slowly down his body. He doesn’t strike me as thefinance type, but who knows? I’m learning loads about British culture tonight. Maybe extremely muscular, tall, tattooed men run spreadsheets all day here.
He can spread my sheets.
My obvious perusal doesn’t go unnoticed, because his chuckle snaps me out of it, and my cheeks flame. He, however, looks like a cat who caught the mouse, smiling ear to ear, and Christ—he hasdimples.
“I didn’t catch your name,” he states.
“I didn’t give it.”
“You’re a bit of an enigma, aren’t you?” He’s surveying me with a look that says he very much wants to figure me out but isn’t sure if I’ll let him. And judging by the expression on his face, I think he likes the challenge. His gaze darts to the far corner of the pub, eyes lighting up with an idea. “Tell you what, love… How about we play a game?”
“I’m listening…” My fingers dance along the stem of my glass, a foreign lightness filling my chest.
“Back there is a dart board.” He points to the game set up along the back wall. For each game won, the winner gets to ask the loser a question.”
