No distractions, I remind myself.
“To stupid fucking love songs,” he repeats, clinking his glass against mine.
We sling back all three of our shots, one after the other, the burn of the chilled tequila licking my throat as I force the lastone down. Jake’s mouth stretches into a grimace, and he clears his throat, pointing to the glasses on the table.
“So those werealltequila,” he says with a strained voice, his fist hovering over his mouth.
“Yup,” I nod, my face still twisting from the lingering flavor. Maybe I should’ve splurged on the top-shelf brand.
He blinks a few times, shaking off the sting. His brow furrows as he points to my glasses. “Wait, why did you take three if you knew?”
I settle into my seat across from him with a shrug. “I’m a team player.”
He chuckles briefly, and my belly excites, gratified by the sound. He clears his throat once more as I suck the life out of a dry lime wedge, feeling the ease in my shoulders as the alcohol begins to work.
“So, what now?” he asks with that downward grin he does so well.
“Now, we talk.” I toss my lime into a small glass and reach for another.
“Talk?” His grin widens, and I feel it in my chest.
“Yes, youmime! It’s how you get to know people.” He laughs, and the satisfaction of it dances on my skin.
It’s working, I think to myself.Keep going.
“So, tell me what else you hate,” I say.
“That is a terrible topic.”
“It’s a great one! I want to know what else you findromantically delusional,” I say, adding air quotes.
He laughs again, his gaze wandering in the space of Brigg’s Bar. I watch as his shoulder slacks into the familiar ease mine have found.
“Uhh…” I study his profile as I wait patiently for his reply. His hazel green eyes are darker in the dim light of the bar, almost appearing chestnut brown. His jaw is perfectly squared, as if it were chiseled from marble, the light stubble along it adding just enough ruggedness to the softness of his skin.
His lips are the perfect shape, the bottom slightly fuller than the top, though you can’t tell the difference when he smiles. My mind instantly wonders what they would feel like against mine. What that bottom lip would feel like between my teeth. It’s been so long since I’ve felt a man’s lips against mine. Since I’ve evenwantedthem.
His throat bobs with a swallow, and my breath catches in my chest. I force my eyes downward, trying to regain my composure, only to lose myself once more in the beauty of his large hand sprawled out against the table.
His palm is wide, and his fingers are long and bold. One knuckle appears to be healing from an old wound, the others beside it red and raw. I immediately picture the way his hands would feel on me. The warmth of them sprawled against the small of my back. The light scratch of his calluses against my skin. I want to feel his hands in a way I absolutely shouldn’t.
“Rain,” he says deeply, suddenly pulling me out of my shockingly promiscuous thoughts.
“What?” I ask, totally forgetting what we were talking about.
“I hate the rain.”
“Oh.”Right. Things he hates.“Well, that’s a normal thing to hate.” I clear my mind and force it to think about raindrops falling from gray skies. Thepingingof them against a windowpane. And then I realize something. “Wait, you don’t think rain is romantic?”
“Romantically delusional.” He nods.
“How is it delusional? Itisromantic.”
“No, it’s not. It’s just rain, and it’s highlyinconvenient.”
I try not to roll my eyes. “It is hardly an inconvenience.”
He holds up a fist, opening a finger as he names each item off his list. “Traffic. Hydroplaning. Puddles. Traffic—”
