Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 105813 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105813 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
I was too damned nervous to flirt or mingle. Wait at the bar. Accept the delivery. The courier would come to me, unlike the man with the unnerving stare.
The bartender glided from counter to counter, taking orders and mixing drinks. When I caught his eyes, I threw back the last of the dirty martini and held it up. One more.
God, that searing stare. Make it stop. My breaths shortened, and my palms grew slick. I fought not to meet it, afraid if I did, I’d engage. Then what? Too risky.
I kept my attention on the bartender, who flitted around in his dapper vest, suspenders, and fedora as if he were serving up bootleg in the back of a speakeasy during the Woodrow Wilson administration. His outfit, the dim lighting, black velvet curtains, and deep shades of red all played into the vintage vibe.
My own throwback to the by-gone era was a blood-red rockabilly dress, empire waist, flared skirt, and thigh-high stockings topped with black bows. An outfit that had fetched numerous compliments when I walked in, which made this ol’ thirty-seven-year-old feel right at home amidst so many gorgeous young ladies in short skirts and towering heels.
And after a survey of the sharply-dressed crowd, I was pretty sure every gentleman in Chicago with a penchant for cabaret was in the room.
Evader could be one of them, donning suspenders and sipping an elixir with a girl on his arm. He didn’t know my face. I didn’t know his. My chest tightened. It was tragic really, but I refused to let his douchery ruin my fantasy of him.
My one night with him might’ve pissed me the fuck off, but it had also added luminance to that achy place I burrowed every time I thought of him.
And I thought of him a lot. Goddamned always.
Maybe I would never find out what had spooked him, but part of me didn’t want to know. He’d given me an erotic memory, one that breathed life into all that hard muscle beneath his dark leathers, and I wouldn’t give that back. And despite the way he ran off, I bet I’d given him something comparable.
The bartender dropped off the martini, and unguarded, my senses flooded back to the man at the opposite end of the L-shaped bar. Before my brain caught on, my eyes snapped up and collided with his.
Trapped in the unblinking grip of his gaze, a swallow hung in my throat. My breath suspended. My entire body reacted. The shadow of stubble on his jaw made my skin prickle. The fullness of his lips sent a tingle through mine. Brown hair, trimmed on the sides and a mess of sexy on top, begged for my fingers, to rake and pull and not let go. I balled my hands in my lap.
Separated by a good twenty feet with the scurrying bartender between us, I couldn’t make out the color of his eyes, but boy, were they smoldering. The heat they emitted raised the temperature in the room, stoking a trembling fever through my body. Who the hell was this guy? And why was I responding this way?
Five nights ago, I had the same intense reaction to a different guy. Ugh. I wasn’t some shallow slut in pursuit of carnal pleasures. I didn’t let my attentions flit randomly from one man to the next. I didn’t want multiple men. What was going on with me?
His chin was tilted down, his gaze angled up beneath hooded lids. Combined with his stern jawline and the slight arch of one brow, he looked oh-so arrogant, broody, destructive. Sweet Jesus, he was so fucking gorgeous it was insulting, like a slap in the face to every man in the club.
And he was looking at me like I was the only woman on his radar.
My heart panted as I squeezed my thighs together, trying and failing to dull the throb between my legs, every sensation magnified by the buzz of alcohol coursing through my blood. The nightclub faded away, and the air between us charged.
He leaned forward, his hand reaching up to trace the lip of the pint glass in front of him, his eyes never leaving mine. The slow movement of his finger sent a shiver through me, hardening my nipples, as if he were trailing that fingertip around the curve of my breast. I sucked in my bottom lip and bit down on a shaky breath.
The corner of his mouth crooked up, replacing the broody look with a confident half-grin. I wished he wouldn’t have done that, because holy mother of God, the lift of his right eyebrow was still there, fixed in place. Which meant he wasn’t just insanely handsome. He was insanely handsome with a natural, lopsided arch in his brow.
As if that wasn’t enough, I greedily drank in his body. He wore a white collared shirt that stretched tightly over his broad chest and thickly-muscled arms. Definitely a man who worked out. Virile. Strong. Probably in his late twenties. Couldn’t be younger than that since the age limit at The Watch was twenty-seven and up.