Page 11 of Last Resort

“Just as I’m sure you’ve made them about me.”

“And what assumptions do you think I’ve made about you?” He’s bumped from behind and takes a step closer to me. He smells of fresh air and the outdoors. It’s a subtle scent but one that owns my attention nonetheless.

Much like he does.

“Hmm. That I’m easy. That I’m so desperate for attention that I’m here in a bar looking for it any way I can find it.” I purse my lips and stare at him as I try to figure out what else to say. “That you sure as hell hope I like Starbucks so you can take me there in the morning.”

“Starbucks?” He coughs out a perplexed laugh. “You just lost me, Collins.”

“In case you forget my name since I’d probably become one among many of your one-night conquests, so the name part might get a bit foggy. It lets you save face. It’s better for you if the barista asks my name to put on my order than if you do.”

Johnnie stares at me with a dumbfounded expression. But his smile mesmerizes me and the amusement in his eyes has me wanting more of his attention.

“That’s actually quite brilliant.”

“Thank you.”

“So do you?” he asks.

“Do I what?”

“Like Starbucks?”

There’s something about him that makes me feel daring. Comfortable. A little not like myself. I lean in close to him and whisper in his ear. “I’m an Americano with two sugars kind of girl, but I doubt you’d forget the name Collins.”

Quit while you’re ahead, Sutton. You might be pulling off the mysterious and flirty thing but it won’t last. You’re seconds away from devolving into the awkward, fumbling idiot, so take the win and walk away while you can.

And with that exact thought, I take my first step, trip over something—probably my own feet in the universe’s way of letting me know I’m not all that cool—and fall toward him. My hand lands on his crotch seconds before my face almost collides with his shoulder.

But I catch myself. Somehow, I gain leverage by pushing against his crotch and shoving myself backwards. He emits a grunt followed by a grimace, and as I steady myself, marveling at how I didn’t spill my drink while registering the exact size of what I felt beneath his pants.

My cheeks flush, and it’s way easier for me to take a long sip of my drink than meet his eyes.

“Jesus.” He chuckles. “If you wanted to test the goods, all you had to do was ask.”

This time he earns the roll of my eyes. It’s the only thing I can think to do other than die of embarrassment. “You really need to work on getting better pickup lines.”

“And you need to work on making better assumptions.”

Our eyes meet, hold, assess. “Are you telling me I’m wrong?” I ask, suddenly on the defensive. “That you’re not here on the prowl? Looking for a good time with a willing woman? Thinking you’ve found an easy target with me?”

“An easy target? You? Hardly.” He gives a quick shake of his head but his eyes tell me there is interest there.

Interest I both want and don’t know how to feel about.

This is all new to me. Foreign. Being hit on in a club. Wanting to be hit on in a club.

Desire in general.

What the hell do I do next?

Live a little. Enjoy feeling attractive and wanted.

Nerves rattle around inside of me as my bravado wanes.

“And for the record, I’m in town for work. Figured I’d grab a few drinks and relax before having to deal with my partners tomorrow.”

“I take it you don’t like them?”