What the hell is she up to, though? She’s on her tiptoes, peering through the window of a dive bar I know too well. In her hand is a shiny pink camera. She’s snapping away with a look of total awe on her face. A face I can only see in profile, but that’s enough to peg her as . . . cute. Cute as a button, even. Huge eyes, full cheeks, the kind of red, puffy lips that stop traffic. At least when I’m at the wheel.
When it comes to women, I don’t have a type. Tall, short, curvy, freckled, pierced, black, white, etcetera. All applications are accepted and approved. This redhead, though . . . I can’t quite put a name on what pulls me toward her on the sidewalk. Is it her smile? The wobbly tip toe dance she’s doing to make up for her lack of height? I’ve established she’s adorable, but she’s probably not looking for a hook up. Yet. Although, I never pursue women outside of bars, where I spend a lot of my time. If you ask my best friend, Danika, way too much time. But the alcohol makes it a shit ton easier to say yes. Yes to the girl, yes to what my body wants right now, but will regret later.
I push the troubling thought aside and focus on the redhead.
Coming to a stop beside her at the window, I get a nice whiff of mint and wonder if it’s courtesy of lotion or direct from the herb. “Need a boost?”
She drops back onto flat feet and flicks me a glance. “I’m grand, thanks.”
Irish girl. Her accent loops around in the air, but doesn’t distract me from her huge blue eyes. Nothing could. They’re the color of pale denim, outlined by a crowd of black lashes.
Hot. Damn.
Those twin beacons scan my face in slow motion, like a couple of barcode readers . . . and go right back to spying in the window. Huh. Disinterest from a girl is definitely new, but then again, this is why meeting women on a night out works so well. There’s no mystery. For all I know, this girl is waiting for her husband to exit the dive where I had my first beer. No ring on her finger, but maybe they’re traveling from Ireland and she left it home to be safe.
My mouth screws up in disgust when I realize I’m performing detective work involuntarily. Freaking academy is actually working.
“What are we looking at?” I ask, trying again.
“You’re looking at me. I’m looking at this historical landmark.”
“O’Keefe’s?” I wave at the familiar bartender through the window. “Are you sure you didn’t confuse this for the Empire State Building? Easy mistake. Happens to everyone.”
One end of her incredible lips gives an upward tug. “I know what I’m at. Could you get lost now?”
“You’re asking me to leave when I just made you smile?”
“I imagine it’s not difficult for you to make a girl smile. What else you got?”
My chest vibrates with a laugh. “What else do you want?”
Thoughts skitter across her face like a blown dandelion. “I won’t know until I see it.”
I prop my shoulder against the building and wink at her. “Look no further.”
She peers up at me and I swear to God, she’s not even seeing what I’ve got on the surface. She’s digging deeper, deeper . . . looking for more. When is the last time that happened? Never. Not that I can remember. She’s not playing a game with me. She seems to be truthing me. Being totally honest.
Who does that?
“I’ll decide when I’m done looking.” With a jolt, she goes back to looking through the window. “But I think that’s enough for now.”
I’m not even offended. I’m more fascinated than anything else. It’s not that I’ve never been turned down before—it has probably happened at least once—and I should really walk away now. No means no. Zero excuses. I’m just finding it pretty difficult to walk away and never hear the tilting notes in her voice again. To forfeit a chance to look into those unmatchable eyes at least one more time. And damn, she was searching for something below my surface and I’m kind of bothered that she hasn’t found it yet. Hell, I’m not even sure what’s there. But the fact that she tried at all makes me want to stick around. “I’ll make you a deal. Just tell me why you’re out here like a peeping tom and I’ll go. Just satisfy my curiosity, would ya, honey?”
The twin patches of pink on the girl’s cheeks tell me she’s not totally unaware that I’m attractive. The cajoling did it. Women like it when I beg, whether or not it’s only for show. This time doesn’t feel like it’s for show.
When she drops back onto her heels, humor is dancing in her expression. “Once I tell you, getting rid of you will be easy enough, I suppose.”
Now that I finally have her undivided attention, I just want to hold on to it. Even though she wants to get rid of me. Maybe the lighting on the street is bad and my face is hidden by shadows. Or the sun is blinding her. That has to be it. “Let me be the judge of that.”
Lips pursed, she tugs a book out of her back pocket. It’s titled The Ultimate Guide to Famous New York City Mob Hits. She gestures toward the window with the book spine. “In there is where Whitey Kavanaugh was whacked during the mob wars of eighty-seven.” Her eyebrows give a mischievous waggle. “You’re kind of interrupting my murder tour here, good looking.”
Katie
In Dublin, we have a word for this kind of man: a ride.
I’m fighting the temptation to peek over his shoulder and see if he walked off a movie set. Honest to God, he’s a dream. A taller version of James Dean, charisma gliding off him in lazy, rolling plumes of smoke. His smile is its own story altogether, the way it crinkles the corners of his eyes and creates dents in his cheeks. I wouldn’t call them dimples, because they’re more like twin, side-by-side dips on both ends. Like his mouth is in quotation marks.
All manner of things are happening here. The dead center cleft in his chin. His stubbled cheeks and jaw. Dark, sweeping eyebrows over green eyes. His hair is in a crew cut, but I can see it’s black and if it were long, would probably flip just perfectly over his forehead, framing his gorgeous face. Tall. He had to be tall and fit, as well? Really? It seems an awful gluttony of five star qualities on a single person. God should have spread them around his other creations a bit.
I could have used a few inches of height myself. My neck is already beginning to protest being craned so long to look into the face of such flawlessness.
Good thing he’ll be moving on soon. No one sticks around for a girl who has a long-standing fascination with organized crime. At least, I don’t think so. I’ve never voiced this interest of mine out loud to a man. I barely speak to men at all, although I have plans to change that while I’m visiting New York. As soon as this completely unrealistic, possibly CGI creature stops trying to knock me into a coma with his physical charms, I’ll be off to the races.
Disorderly Conduct (The Academy #1)
Tessa Bailey's books
- Baiting the Maid of Honor_a Wedding Dare novel
- Protecting What's His
- Boiling Point (Crossing the Line #3)
- Risking it All (Crossing the Line, #1)
- Up in Smoke (Crossing the Line, #2)
- Crashed Out (Made in Jersey, #1)
- Rough Rhythm: A Made in Jersey Novella (1001 Dark Nights)
- Thrown Down (Made in Jersey #2)