Chad flashes me another smile. “Yeah…yeah, I gotta get going. But hey, let me give you my number—”
“Nah, she’s good.” My new friend glances at me. It’s quick, but the look is there, the genuine concern, the unspoken question. Are you okay?
I give him a curt nod.
“Hey man, I can give her my number,” huffs Chad. He’s letting his fear of embarrassment outweigh his survival instincts. I’m not surprised, seeing as his jerky friends are sitting across the bar laughing at us. “I’m in town for the rest of the week, and there’s the regatta I was telling you about—”
“Look, I don’t mean to be a major cock block, but I didn’t fly across the country to watch my sister flirt with some Cabela’s model.” He drops his gaze to me, his entire mood shifting from surly to puppy dog. “Come on, Amy,” he whines, his voice softer now. “Please don’t do this. Not again. No more random bar hookups while we’re on vacation. You promised we’d go see the Space Needle. And I want to watch them throw fish at the wharf.”
I’m fighting my laughter now. This guy is too much. “Okay, yeah,” I reply. “We can do the Space Needle. And how about I get you a dragon fruit tea from the original Starbucks?”
“Awesome.” He wedges himself between me and Chad, forcing him to take another step back.
“Well, I’ll just…go,” Chad mutters.
But my new seat mate is totally ignoring him. He’s scanning the menu QR code with his phone. “Hey, did you see they have mozzarella sticks?” he says, his tone falsely bright and cheery. “I’m ordering some. You wanna share? Oh, shit—you’re allergic to dairy. Well, I’m still ordering them.”
I’m smiling now. I can’t help it. This guy has effectively neutralized my Chad problem without me having to be a bitch and make a scene. And now the bartender is taking his order—craft beer, mozzarella sticks, and a basket of fries with blue cheese dressing instead of ketchup.
Chad snatches his Macallan neat off the bar and returns to his table. They welcome him with hoots and jeers.
“Assholes,” new guy mutters, accepting the beer the bartender slides his way.
I settle back on my stool, unable to deny the sudden shift in energy. Why do I feel nervous? This guy’s presence is undeniable. It’s like he’s a magnet, and I’m being pulled closer against my will.
Great, now I’m the creep.
I sigh, draining the last of my Old Fashioned, and flag the bartender down. I order a hot tea instead. No more booze for Rachel.
“I’m sorry if I overstepped,” he says. “I swear I wasn’t trying to be a dick, you just looked like you needed the save.”
“It’s fine,” I reply, accepting my hot tea. I squeeze a wedge of lemon into the cup adding, “It was entertaining.”
He smirks at me, those hazel eyes flashing with amusement, but they quickly fade back to sad. I want to know what this beautiful man has to be sad about. A moment ago, he was like a puppy wagging his tail, now he’s a puppy sitting alone in a puddle.
“And don’t worry,” he adds, glancing over his shoulder towards the rowdy brunch table. “I’ll sit here just to keep up appearances, but I promise I won’t bug you. I know you wanna be left alone.”
I pause, the cup of tea raised halfway to my lips. “What makes you think I want to be left alone?”
He snorts, taking a sip of his beer. “You mean aside from the big ‘FUCK YOU’ you’ve got tattooed on your forehead?” He gestures at my face with his hand.
I purse my lips. “Oh, so you can see it. Good. For a minute there, I thought it must have washed off in the shower.”
“Nope. You were giving that guy all the signs to fuck right off. Not to mention you were practically falling off your stool to get away. Then I saw him touch you,” he mutters, his mood shifting from sad to mad. “I saw you flinch.”
I stiffen, feeling the ghost of that unwanted touch between my shoulders.
“I hate guys like that,” he says, taking another sip of his beer.
“Like what?”
“Guys that think they can take whatever they want from a woman. I was serious,” he adds, turning slightly to face me, those hazel eyes holding me captive. “My sister, Amy…she hasn’t always had the best luck with guys,” he explains. “I see a woman who is clearly uncomfortable, and I sorta see red. She’d call me a protective alpha hole. Maybe you will too. But you know, whatever. Chicks always say nothing will get better until the good guys stand up and set the bad ones straight. If it keeps my Amy safe, I’ll be the jerk. And maybe guys like Douche McYachtclub over there will mind their manners next time.”
I gasp, setting my tea down with a rattle. “Ohmygod, shut up.”
He raises a dark brow in confusion. “What? That guy was being a total douche.”
I grin, brushing my hand along his arm, as I lean in with a laugh. “I’ve been calling him Chad McBoatface in my head this whole time.”
He glances back over his shoulder and snorts with laughter too. “Yeah…yeah, that guy is a total Chad.”
I settle back on my stool. We both gaze up at the TVs. There’s a baseball game on next to the soccer game. The bartender brings over two steaming baskets of fried food.
The mozzarella sticks smell amazing. And I’m not actually lactose intolerant. If my knight in shining grey cotton offers to share, I’m not saying no. Besides, a fried stick of cheese might help soak up some of the bourbon currently sitting in my empty stomach.
“Want some of this?” he asks, sliding me a sharing plate.
I smile, reaching for a mozzarella stick. “Sure, thanks.”
He picks at the food, checking his phone.
As soon as a commercial starts on both the TV screens, I clear my throat. “So…what brings you to Seattle?”
2
It’s all I can do to act natural, eating my fries and pretending to watch baseball, like I’m not sitting next to the world’s most beautiful woman. I had no idea what she looked like when I walked in. She had her back turned the whole time. I saw a woman clearly desperate to be left alone, and I didn’t think, I just acted, calling out my sister’s name.
When she spun around on that barstool, I swear to god, she stole all the air from my lungs like some slow-mo scene in a chick flick. Her dark brown hair flowed down her back in waves, the tips golden in the sunlight shining in from the bar’s wall of floor-to-ceiling windows.
She’s wearing this sexy black outfit, open down to her waist in the back. The front cuts in a low “V” between her breasts. And—fuck—she has tattoos. They’re all small, nothing larger than a playing card, but they dot up both arms, on her shoulder, a few on her fingers. I can see the hint of one on her ribs disappearing under her outfit. Cute, girlie stuff, like hearts and arrows and music notes.
And fuck me if she doesn’t have a sexy little geometric pattern low on her sternum, disappearing between her breasts. Now I’m the pig wanting to see how far down it goes. I want to lick it. And she smells so good. It’s floral and smooth, but with a hint of spice.