She’s beautiful, this woman with green eyes, a razor wit, and a weakness for men who need therapy. Beautiful, smart, and observant, which makes her the kind of dangerous I should be walking away from right the fuck now.
My feet have other ideas. They refuse to move, though I keep insisting they take us as far away from her as we can get.
They’re not my only body part she’s mesmerized.
My dick, my heart, and every nerve under my skin all ache for her.
Into the awkward silence, the waiter clears his throat. “Another whiskey, sir?”
“Make it two.”
I say it in a tone he understands correctly as a dismissal. He withdraws, leaving Shay and me alone in our tense little bubble.
I say, “Don’t romanticize me.”
“I’m not. It was simply an observation. The bad guys never think they’re the bad guys. They’re too busy pointing fingers and blaming everyone else for making them do what they did. Besides, I don’t have any romance left in me. Chet cured me of that.”
I curl my lip in disgust. “Chet? Even his name sounds clownish.”
“Really? I think it’s a nice name. Masculine.”
“Not masculine. Boyish. I’m picturing a sporty blond with perfect teeth and too much product in his hair.”
She smiles.
I wish I could take a picture of that smile. It could end wars.
“That description is so accurate, it’s disturbing. Tell me more.”
“He works out every day. Gets spray tans. Calls everyone ‘bro.’ Never shuts up about his Rolex. Watches himself in a mirror when he fucks. Has one of those smug, entitled faces you want to punch as soon as you see it.”
Shay blinks rapidly, shaking her head. “This is uncanny. Do you know him?”
“I know the type. Prep school frat boy fuckwit.”
Her laugh is so attractive and disarming, I have to clench my molars together to stop from kissing her.
I can’t remember the last time I had this kind of physical response to someone. Maybe never. There must be magnets under our skin, drawing us closer together.
“You and Chelsea would really get along.”
“Why’s that?”
“She calls him the twatwaffle.”
I pause to think. “Interesting visual. But how the fuck—and I mean this in the most respectful way possible—did a woman like you fall for a cunt like that?”
Her laughter dies. She sits there looking stunned, which makes me feel like an asshole.
“I’m sorry. That was out of line.”
“No, not at all. It just struck me that I’ve never heard a man call another man a cunt before. It’s strangely satisfying.”
“It’s a very versatile word.”
We’re staring at each other again. It’s becoming a habit. I never want to stop.
What the fuck is she doing to me?
Because I’m so unsteady, my words come out more angrily than I intended. “So he cheated on you.”
“Oh my God.”
“What?”
“How do you know that?”
She’s visibly upset. The pulse in the side of her neck is throbbing. I want to press my lips against it. I want to bury my face in her hair. Instead, I stare into her eyes and fight the desire heating my entire body.
“Just a hunch.”
Her laugh is small and nervous. She smooths a trembling hand over her hair and looks down at her lap. “It was a good one.”
We sit silently for a moment as I watch her struggle to regain her composure. She’s fighting bad memories, something I know all about.
Then, because I find her fascinating and want to know all her secrets, I say, “How did you find out?”
“His phone. He left it out on the counter by accident one day, open to this dating app. He was messaging all these different women. Asking for nudes. Arranging times to hook up. I stupidly believed him when he said he was always on his cell because of work.”
“What kind of work did he do?”
“He’s a personal trainer.”
“Of course he is.”
“Don’t sound so disgusted.”
“It’s not disgust. It’s contempt. I’d like to find this shitty little loser and see how loud he can scream.”
After a thoughtful silence, she says, “I can’t decide if that’s a red flag or just a genuinely nice thing to say.”
“It’s a red flag.”
“I’d like to think it’s partly both.”
“It’s not. I just threatened violence on a stranger and meant it.”
“I know, but you did it from a protective instinct. It’s almost chivalrous.”
I realize I’m glaring at her, but I can’t help it. She’s being willfully naïve. Confusing antiheroes with good guys. She probably reads too many romance novels. “You need to get better at discerning which men you should stay away from.”
“Hey, I’m only sitting here because I was blackmailed into it.”
“Here’s a serious question for you. Have you ever considered that maybe you didn’t get what you wanted because you deserve better?”
Now she’s glaring back at me. What I said irritated her, and she’s about to use that sharp tongue of hers to tell me exactly what it is.
“What I wanted was love. What’s better than that?”
“Men don’t abandon women they love. They abandon women they were using.”
That one hit her hard. A mixture of pain and anger flares in her eyes.
I say more gently, “There’s something missing in him. You knew that. You just chose to ignore it. All I’m saying is don’t make the same choice with the next man.”
She snaps, “Maybe there won’t be a next man. Maybe I’m done with all of you.”
“There will be a next man.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Because even a complete stranger can see how you deserve to be worshipped.”
Her lips part. Unblinking, she stares at me with her brows drawn together and her beautiful face pale. Then she demands, “Who says that?”
“Are you offended?”
“No, I’m confused!”
“Why?”
“Because you act like you think I’m contagious, but you talk like a hero from a romance novel!”
“I knew it.”
“You knew what?”
“You read romance novels.”
“So?”
“So that shit will rot your brain.”
“Oh, please, it’s fun, escapist fantasy. It’s also feminist, because it encourages us to explore our own sexual pleasure. Are you afraid women will have too high of standards after reading about being loved by fictional men?”
“No, I’m afraid their standards will fall too low.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Christian Grey has multiple personality disorders caused by intense childhood trauma. Edward Cullen is a controlling stalker who wants to kill Bella by drinking her blood. Mr. Darcy is an arrogant prick with crippling social anxiety and prejudice against the lower class. Yet all these flawed characters have inspired millions of women to think that broken men are somehow ideal, or could be, if only the right woman loved them.”
I’m glad there isn’t any cutlery on the table. Judging by her expression, Shay would’ve already thrust a knife into my spleen.
“I think you’re the most annoying man I’ve ever met.”
“Only because you know I’m right.”
She looks around, as if to ask the nearest person for a meat cleaver.
The waiter returns with our drinks. Sensing the tension, he carefully sets the glasses down, his gaze darting between us, then sends us a stiff smile and runs away without a word.
Shay picks up her glass and chugs the whiskey, making a face and shuddering when it’s gone. “Blech.”
“Why did you drink it all so fast?”
“It was either that or murder.”
I shock both of us then by chuckling.
She turns to me with her brows raised and says drily, “I must already be drunk. That sounded suspiciously like a laugh.”
I scowl at her. “It wasn’t.”
She studies me for a long time, her expression unreadable and her eyes intense. Then she slowly sets her empty glass back onto the table and levels me with a look of such frank sexual desire, I’m stunned.
I’m even more stunned by what comes out of her mouth next.
“I’m no angel either. I’ve got all kinds of faults.”
“Really? Like what?”
“Like that I’m reckless.”
“How so?”
She doesn’t even hesitate when she pulls the rug out from under me.
“Well, we only just met, and until tonight, I was sure I’d be celibate forever, but I’m seriously considering asking you to get us a room in this hotel.”
Everyone and everything else in the bar vanishes. A distant roar fills my ears and my heart starts to hammer.
Then I tell a lie so fucking outrageous, I barely manage to force it past my lips.
“Don’t ask me. I’ll say no.”
