His eyes catch mine again. “Speaking from experience?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say, pouring him a shot of whiskey and sliding it across the counter. Even with the smile, he looks like he could use it. “Bartender experience. Maybe you just need a distraction.” I look over his shoulder to where his group of friends is sitting, along with the brunette whose eyes still track him everywhere. He follows my gaze and then turns back with a little shake of his head.
Luke lifts the shot, tilting his head back and swallowing it in one go. He sets the glass on the bar top and exhales, coughing a little. “Thanks.”
“No problem.”
“What about you?” he asks.
I move to the sink to set the glass inside. “What about me what?”
“Are you in need of a distraction?”
Inside, something sharp recoils into my lungs, but I manage a friendly smile. “I’m good.”
Luke dips his head, looking up at me through his lashes as he asks, “What does that mean, you’re ‘good’?”
I pick up a bar towel, looking down at it as I tell him, “It means I don’t date guys I meet at work.”
“I’m not asking you to go steady, Dimples.” With a sneaky smile, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out another dollar, tucking it away inside the jar. His eyes meet mine and something tightens between my ribs and belly button. His look is knowing, as if he can see that I had a shitty day, and I see he’s having a shitty night, and he likes that we both see these things.
I don’t like having this chemistry with him, don’t like the wordless connection.
Or maybe I don’t like how much I like it. I still have that choking-breathless feel from this morning, but it loosens inexplicably the longer he’s here, talking to me.
“Speaking of,” he says quietly, “I haven’t seen much of those dimples tonight.”
Shrugging, I say, “Let’s just say it’s been a day.”
He leans both elbows on the bar, studying me. “Sounds like you could blow off some steam, too.”
I laugh at this, unable to resist admitting, “Probably true.”
Reaching for a coaster, he spins it slowly in front of him. “Maybe someone could help you out with that.”
I ignore him and start wiping down the bar. It isn’t the first time I’ve been propositioned at work, not by a long shot. But it’s the first time I’m tempted to accept, because inside, I’m thrumming as I imagine what he’s offering.
“Do you have a boyfriend?” he asks, undeterred, and I shake my head.
“No,” I tell him. If the way his arms look in that T-shirt is any indication, I bet he looks fantastic naked.
I bet he knows he does, too.
It’s a sign that it’s been way too long since I’ve had sex if I’m even having this conversation with myself. The last thing I need in my life is a guy like Luke. I take a sharp breath and get some physical distance, stepping away a little.
Following me with his eyes, he asks, “So is this no-dating-guys-you-meet-at-work thing, like, an actual rule?”
“Sort of.” I fold the bar towel and tuck it into the back of my apron, meeting his eyes.
“What if I promised I was absolutely worth it?”
Why do I think he is absolutely telling the truth? He smiles shyly, but behind his honey-brown eyes, I can see he’s still hunting.
“I’m sure you’re amazing.” I lean back against the sink, staring him down and shocked that I’m even still standing here. “But I don’t even remember your name.”
“Yes, you do.” He leans forward, crossing his arms on the glossy wood.
I bite back a smile.
“What time do you get off tonight?” he asks.
I can’t help but look at his mouth and imagine how it would feel moving, hot and open, down my neck, my breasts, over my ribs.
It occurs to me that if one wanted to break a losing streak, one would go with a sure thing, right? Who better to bust me out of my sex drought than someone who clearly knows what he’s doing? And someone who wouldn’t need it to mean anything?
A few beats of silence pass between us before I straighten, reaching for a ticket one of the waitresses sets down next to me. It’s now or never.
“I get off at one.”
Chapter TWO
Luke
I’M NOT SURE what it is about this girl that’s so different from every other girl I’ve let into my house, but I find myself racing up the steps and getting to the door before her, doing a quick scan of the dark living room, a tiny peek toward the kitchen.
Not too bad.
No food left out on the coffee table and—more important—no boxers on the kitchen floor. I’m doing the mental trigger finger salute to the gods to make sure we’re on the same page here: there’d better not be any condom wrappers visible in the bedroom. Or the bathroom, for that matter.
I open the door wider for her and grin. “Come on in.”