2
MY AMUSED STALKER had olive-toned skin, dark eyes, and hair cut close to his head. He had that muscled, military look about him, which sparked half a dozen dirty puns in my head about him invading my territories. Plus, he was tall with a permanent smolder that would have made Tyra Banks stop the crazy train and stare.
Unfortunately, the only staring happening was on his part. Why did it have to be someone so hot who witnessed my face sucking of shame? And as if he could read my thoughts through my gaze, he laughed harder.
I tore myself away from Tamás and put my hand up to keep him from following me.
“Bathroom!” I blurted.
The word meant nothing to him, so he reached for me again.
“Eh-eh!” I gave him the Heisman and tried, “Toilet?”
His brow furrowed, and he held a hand to his ear. So I yelled louder, “Toilet!”
The volume didn’t help, but it did make a dozen or so people around us who obviously spoke English stop and gawk at me. And my traitorous eyes found the guy across the room. If he laughed any harder, he was going to pop a lung.
Damn it.
I guessed he didn’t have any issues understanding my English.
I turned and fled, probably only exponentially increasing the size of the scene I’d just made, but I was only focused on washing away the embarrassment with another drink.
I tried to walk over the rubble pile that led back to the bar, but the ground kept moving, and I felt a million miles tall in these heels. Tipsier than I realized, I blinked, trying to bring the world back into focus. I had to bend and balance my hand on a chunk of concrete to keep from toppling over.
“What? No more locals around to carry you?”
I turned my head to the side, and my worst fears came true.
Soldier Smolder. He was even more gorgeous up close, which was only magnified by his deep voice. And from the sound of it, he was American, too. The look on his face was part teasing–part condescending, but his eyes still had my organs doing somersaults.
Or … that could have been the alcohol.
Both. Let’s go with both.
“I don’t need anyone to carry me. I’m perfectly—whoa.”
I tried to straighten up, but my ankle twisted and the world went a little topsy-turvy. In what seemed like fast-forward, I went from standing to sitting on the rubble in the blink of an eye, the heels of my hands scraped raw from the rough concrete. I was still trying to figure out if I was moving at lightning speed, or if the world was moving really slowly, when suddenly—I was flying.
My vision filled with a strong jaw that gave way to soft, full lips. And then eyes so piercing, they reminded me of growing up in church and feeling certain that somewhere out there was a God that was watching, and could see everything I didn’t want him to see.
“You remind me of God,” I mumbled, then immediately wished I could suck those words back into my mouth.
He laughed. “Well, that’s a new one for me.”
“I meant …” I don’t know what I meant. God, I was drunk. “Let me down. I don’t need anyone to carry me.”
He spoke, and I felt his low voice vibrate from his chest into mine. “I don’t care what you think you need.”
Story of my life. I loved men as much as the next girl, but why was it that they always seemed to think they knew better?
I rolled my eyes and said, “Fine, carry me all night. Works for me.”
I leaned my head on his shoulder and snuggled up against his chest to get comfortable. I was just curling my hand around the back of his neck when he plopped my feet down on the ground, on the other side of the rubble. I winced, pain jolting up from my ankles to my knees from the hard landing.
Sigh. I should have kept my smart mouth shut. I pretended like I wasn’t disappointed, shrugged, and turned toward the bar. He appeared in front of me so fast, and my reflexes were so slow, that I barely managed to keep from face-planting into his pecs.
Wait … Why was I trying to keep from doing that?
He said, “What? No thank-you?”
I leveled him with a stare, feeling more sober than I had a few moments ago. “I’m not in the habit of thanking people who do things to me against my will. So, if you don’t mind—”
I pushed past him and flagged down the bartender, who thankfully spoke English. I asked for tequila and took a seat on a barstool.
“Give her a water, too,” my stalker added, sitting down beside me.
I eyed him. Hot, he was definitely hot. But I’d never met a guy in a bar who tried to get me less drunk. That somehow made it harder to trust him.
Twisted, I know. But I had learned a long time ago that if you didn’t figure out what people wanted from you at the beginning, it would come back to bite you in the ass later. Plus, if I was reading the tension in his jaw correctly, he was angry, and for the life of me I couldn’t figure out why he was sitting there beside me if I annoyed him so much.
I said, “You’re awfully pushy, stranger.”
And kind of dangerous. Who knew stranger-danger could be so hot?
“You’re awfully drunk, princess.”
I laughed. “Honey, I’m barely getting started. When I start talking about how I can’t feel my cheeks and get a little touchy-feely, then you’ll know I’m awfully drunk.”
His eyebrow raised when I said touchy-feely, but he didn’t comment. My shot arrived, along with a cup of water. I glared at the latter, pushing it away from me, then grabbed my shot.
This trip was about adventure, about living life with no baggage and no strings and no thought. Only now. It definitely wasn’t about drinking water.
I tipped back the shot.
Now.