Peyton
His chin.That was the first thing I noticed about the man sitting at the other end of the bar. He had a strong chin, set squarely on his equally square jaw. It was prominent, but not so striking that I should find myself sitting there, nursing a bourbon and just staring at this man’s chin. It’s not like chins were mything.
It just felt… familiar.
Maybe it was the architect in me. I’ve always been a sucker for strong, graceful lines, like the kind that framed the tattooed man’s sculpted cheekbones, full lips, and broad features. Maybe that was why, of all the people in the bar that night, he was the one I couldn’t stop thinking about.
And I did keep glancing at him, although, honestly, he kind of looked like a jerk. His attitude was cocky, leaning back and eyeing the bar, and he had way, way too many muscles, as far as I was concerned.
Would I even know what to do with a man?
I took another sip of my bourbon, and the ice cubes rattled the glass. I wasn’t the type to hit up a bar unless my friends dragged me there, and I definitely wasn’t in the habit of hooking up with strangers. But moving across the state, from Philadelphia to Pittsburgh, had got me in some sort of a mood.
Moving across the state and the fact that my ex-girlfriend called me “boring” when she broke up with me. It was months ago now, but the sting of the words hadn’t fully faded.
Especially since I couldn’t quite convince myself that she was wrong.
“Excuse me.”
A deep voice rumbled behind my shoulder, and when I turned, the man with the chin and the muscles was standing there. The bar was dimly lit, with some old rock music playing over the speakers, not too loud, and crowded enough that most of the tables were full around us.
But when I looked up from my stool, it was like this stranger and I were the only people there.
“Uh, sure,” I said, then adjusted my glasses as I scooted to the side, making room for him at the bar.
The man leaned forward and brushed me. He was wearing a black T-shirt, fit snug to his ropey arms and flat chest, and a waft of his piney cologne went straight to my nose. His hair, buzzed at the sides, was still long and messy enough that it nearly fell over his eyes until he pushed it back as he nodded to the bartender. “Another round?” He tilted his eyes to me. “And you?”
I looked at my glass, surprised, then threw back the last splash of brown liquid. “Yeah, sure. Thank you.”
The man casually raised two fingers to the bartender. Meeting someone at the bar for a hookup was outside my experience, but going ahead and actually meeting a man was a whole new level of disorienting. I knew it was a possibility. It’s why I picked a bar with a “bi night,” to leave the option open for myself.
Several years into my thirties, and I still hadn’t even figured out my sexuality, although maybe that was about to change.
So even though my nerves were rattled, and even though this guy dripped with arrogance, I decided to take advantage of the opportunity while I had it.
“I’m Peyton,” I said and offered my hand in the exact moment that the bartender returned with the drinks. What started as a friendly gesture ended with me whacking the glasses out of her hands and liquid flying against the stranger’s broad chest. “Fuck!” I groaned.
He grinned, his entire demeanor relaxed. I expected him to be furious, but instead, the smile broke his cocky attitude.
“I am so, so sorry,” I said to the bartender, then the man. I grabbed a stack of paper napkins, then pushed them against his distractingly firm chest. “Let me help.”
His hand closed over mine with a firm, steady grip. Then he smiled. “I’m Jet.” He looked up to the bartender. “Could we get a refill? I’ll clean this up.”
Jet. Who had a name like that?
He slid his grip to my wrist, then took the napkins, patting at himself. “You know how to make an impression, Peyton.”
Jet was teasing me. Not in a mean way, but a flirty way.
“I haven’t been out in a while,” I replied, trying to work through the humiliation and flirt back. “You’re not supposed to throw your drink at strangers?”
Jet laughed loudly, then scooped some spilled ice cubes from the bar into an empty glass. When our new drinks arrived, he accepted them and carefully handed one to me, then tossed a generous tip for the bartender, all in one smooth motion that ended with a smile.
And fuck, that smile. It was easy, steady, charming, and with just a hint of a mischief to it. It felt like he considered me and decided sure, why not? Like I might be fun, even though every time I glanced at the long mirror behind the bar, my Oxford shirt, square glasses, and tight beard seemed exceptionally uncool in the crowd.
Like a boring straight man who got lost on his way home from the office.
“I don’t think this is a drink-throwing bar,” he answered, then nodded toward the back. “Want to grab a table? Keep me company while I dry off?”
