Page 43 of Sexy

“No, um, I was on a date, but it didn’t go well. So I left him on the course and came in here to wind down before I have to ride back to the hotel with him.”

“My lucky day then.” He smiles big and lifts his drink, just as mine is delivered. “Cheers,” he says.

I clink his glass and take a long sip of alcohol. Shit, I’m nervous. Now what? The obvious stuff is out of the way. On to the tips, I guess. Tongue, bite lip, play with lip, and something called the toe-leg combo.

“Tiffy?”

“Yes?” I ask, coming back to the present.

“Daydreaming?” He laughs.

“What’d I miss?”

“What do you do at the hotel?”

“Oh, I, ah—” Shit. I can’t tell him I’m Tiffy Preston. This is not a great example of making good decisions. “I’m a dancer.”

What the fuck? How did that come out of my mouth?

“Dancer,” he says, his eyes lighting up. “What kind of dancer?”

“Well, err, you know, like a showgirl.”

“Wow,” he says, sipping his drink while giving me a coy look. “I’m gonna have to come see you perform.”

“You really should. Tomorrow night.” I laugh at that, knowing full well Fletcher’s show is on tomorrow night.

He lets out a chuckle that sounds a little bit like a growl. “It’s a date.”

“Shit, I was kidding.” I say, laughing.

And then he reaches up and scratches his scruffy chin. My eyes immediately dart to his fingers, and then his lips. Lips, Tiffy, I tell myself. Do the mouth thing.

I take another sip of my drink, letting the sticky liquid cling to my lips, and then my tongue darts out and sweeps a small drop into my mouth.

His eyes are fixated on me. So I improvise. Because hell, I’m on a roll here. He’s right where I want him. “So what are you doing here alone?”

“Stood up,” he says.

“What? No way. You? Who would stand you up?”

“You’d be surprised.” He grins, taking a sip of his beer. “So I figured I’d wait around and see if my luck changes, and sure enough, here you are.”

OK, Tiffy. Concentrate. Toe-leg combo. What the fuck can that mean? Why didn’t I listen to Fletch in the car? I run all the possibilities through my head and only come up with one thing. Footsie? Is that still a thing?

I have no idea. But it’s as good a move as any. So I slip my shoe off under the table, cross my legs, and start swinging them. I hit his leg after a few tries and look up to see him smiling at me.

“What are you doing?” he asks with an air of amusement.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to bump your leg. So, what do you do?” I ask again.

“I’m… an investor.”

“Oh, nice. My father does that too. What do you invest in?”

“The usual. Stock, bonds.” He nods in the general direction of the bar. “And now golf courses.” He stares at me. Hard. And then I feel something touching my leg. His foot is bare too. And it’s rubbing up and down my calf in long, slow caresses. He has a look of amusement on his face and the whole thing makes me draw in some air with surprise. It’s almost like he’s using Fletcher’s moves against me.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”