Page 1 of Lucas

Chapter 1

Guys with neck tattoos are either scary badass or sexy as fuck.

This one is kind of both.

I’m mid trying to figure out if the sexy tattooed guy at the bar is a musician or an ex convict (maybe both?), when a familiar warm hand slides across my thigh.

“Cool it, Austin,” I say through grit teeth as I give him a hard elbow to his ribs.

He coughs out a laugh. “Christ, Eden. I never took you for the type that likes to play rough.”

I savor a sip of beer. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

Like how Austin’s pretty boy looks do nothing for my libido, while the tattooed hottie at the bar has my stomach doing summersaults. That guy tilts his head to down the rest of his Bud, causing the scorpion at the base of his neck to stretch long and lean. Damn, that’s hot.

Austin straddles a chair and shuffles up to the table next to me, so close we’re practically touching. He cups his tumbler of scotch like a coffee mug and nudges me with his elbow. “Is it my cologne? Because the girl at the drug store convinced me Axe is the way to go.” His blue eyes twinkle with mischief. “We could take a shower.” He leans closer, the sour scent of alcohol permeating off his breath and through his pores. “That would get rid of the cologne smell, if that’s the problem.”

My gag reflex ignites. “You’re ridiculous.”

Ridiculous is the story of my life right now, which is how I ended up at a dive bar in downtown New York City with Austin, the director of ad sales for Rubberneckers, the e-mag I co-own with my friends, Liz and Marnie. Sadly, my attempt to blow off a little job stress steam tonight is rapidly turning into an episode of Survivor. If Austin doesn’t back off quick, “the island” won’t be the only thing he’s booted from—his job security hangs by a loose thread.

“You know my policy on inter-office dating,” I say, standing.

Austin gives me a wolfish grin. “Who said anything about dating?” His eyes land on my chest.

I snatch my empty beer glass off the table and shake my head. “Go home, Austin. You’re drunk.”

After weaving my way through the tables overflowing with baseball enthusiasts cheering on the Mets, I plunk down on the only empty bar stool—right next to the tattooed hot guy. Maybe Austin isn’t the only one who’s had too much to drink, because I could swear a current strong enough to electrocute me runs between us.

Tattoo guy turns his head toward me. Holy shit, are his eyes green.

Emerald, actually.

He stares at me a long beat—I’m sure time almost stands still—until his attention is pulled by a homerun play on the TV screen above the bar. I exhale hard, and smile nervously at the bartender who tops up my beer.

“On the house,” he says, with a wink.

I’m about to thank him when a thick finger aggressively taps my shoulder. Without turning, I calmly advise Austin to leave me the fuck alone—again. His hand moves to my hip. I jerk away, knocking my glass forward. Beer sloshes over the side and coats my fingers. I shake them off. Fucking hell.

Heat rushes to my cheeks and I shove Austin away. “Seriously, dude. I’ve had enough.”

I’ve fielded his pathetic come-ons with forced diplomacy for almost two years, conceding that despite his ridiculous attempts to lure me to his bed, he’s damn good at his job. Best ad salesman in the city, to be frank. I’ve been patient. Kind. But my stress levels are off the charts tonight, and I’m tired of pissing around.

“Take the hint, buddy,” says the tattoo guy, without even looking away from the TV. He adjusts his ball cap and squares his broad shoulders, jaw tense. Well, hello knight in shining armor.

Austin ignores him and wedges between us, knocking his thigh up against my knee. His eyes are glossy and sweat beads across his forehead. Drunk as fuck. Damn it. Guys that can’t control their alcohol really grate on my nerves.

Austin’s lip curls into a snarl. “Why are you being such a skank anyway?”

I recoil at the blatant insult, narrowing my eyebrows. “You want to take that back, smart ass?”

Tattoo guy’s cheek twitches.

Austin sneers. “Oh, I’m just getting started, baby.” He licks his lips, pointing his gaze again on my breasts. “I don’t even know why I bothered with you.” He leans close, breath hot against my eardrum. “You’re not even pretty anymore.”

My hands tighten around the beer glass. I could end this now, just pick up my drink and toss it in his smug face, then walk right out the door. But the weight of a dozen or so eyes land on me, and in my peripheral vision, I catch the bartender inching toward one of the bouncers. Last thing I need tonight is a damn scene.

“You’re making a fool of yourself,” I seethe, under my breath.