“Well, in that case…” I pause and bite down on my bottom lip. “Since you stole my bartender, I think it’s only fair that you buy me a drink.”
He searches my eyes, a small smile once again lighting his own. “Stole your bartender?”
“Yep. Plucked him right from my braless grasp.”
He laughs again, shaking his head and fighting like hell not to look down. I’m immediately impressed by his level of self-control. Nine out of ten of the men I’ve been with in the past would have focused in on my buzzword and failed to look away from it for the rest of the night.
But not this guy. He’s interested—I can tell by the way his pupils have dilated—but for now, he’s content to focus on my eyes.
Irony at its finest, as that simple behavior actually increases his chances of seeing my nipples later.
“Okay, then. I guess I owe you one. What’s your poison?” That handsome grin of his grows wider, and I swear to God, I can feel it all the way to my damn toes.
Tell him gin and tonic because it will taste good when you get him to kiss you later, my horny, sex-deprived subconscious instructs.
The other side of my brain—the rational side—suggests something low in alcohol content—something that promotes good decisions.
I think it over for a brief moment, scanning the features of his too-handsome face and landing on his luscious smirking lips once again.
The answer pours out of me like a benediction. “Gin and tonic, please.”
Theo
With unruly blond curls, bright-blue eyes, and the kind of body that deserves a standing fucking ovation, this woman has my attention.
This isn’t usually a game I play, a game I even remotely have the time for while I’m observing the efficiency of one of my new clubs on its second night of opening. But there’s something about this beautiful, flirtatious, confident woman that has me doing everything I can to convince my mind that it can’t remember my normal rules.
“A gin and tonic?” I ask to confirm, searching the depths of her pretty blue eyes. I’m not sure what I’m expecting to find hidden in the meaning of her drink order, but I can only take it as a sign that I’m hungry for information.
Like maybe if I figure out more about her, perhaps I can pinpoint why she has me feeling so untethered.
“It’s my favorite drink.”
With a smile, I lean into the bar next to her—careful to avoid the electric touch of her smooth, tanned skin—and grab Sergio’s attention. He notices me and jerks up his chin before finishing up with the customer in front of him.
She hums deep in her throat, a mix between a laugh and a groan, and my cock jerks unexpectedly in my pants.
Fuck, get it together, Theo.
“So, it’s confirmed, then. You do have some kind of voodoo magic cast on the bartenders.”
I laugh at her assertion but avoid explaining my powers just yet. It’s not that I don’t want her to know I own the club; it just feels like the wrong time. “I’m Theo, by the way,” I say instead.
“Lena,” she returns, holding out a slender hand in the minimal space between us. Honestly, her arm is folded in an impressive showing of origami. It’s like an aluminum swan filled with takeout. Or a fancy seating card at a charity event.
But prettier.
The simple, awkwardly succinct gesture makes me smile yet again. So much so, I’m not even entirely sure I’ve given her name the focus it likely deserves, but there’ll be more time for that later.
I’m determined now to make sure of it.
When Sergio makes it over to us, I don’t wait for him to greet me before ordering our drinks.
“A gin and tonic for the lady and a whiskey, neat, for me.”
Lena’s beautiful neck elongates even further as she turns to me with an excited smile. “Whiskey, huh?”
I nod, and my eyes latch on to the small tattoo on her shoulder. It’s a cartoon butterfly, and it’s fucking smiling. It might be the most oddly adorable tattoo I’ve ever seen in my life. And like my own personal treasure hunt, my gaze manages to find two more tattoos in record time—a little black heart on the inside of her right wrist and a colorful peacock feather just below her collarbone.
While tattoos aren’t normally my thing, tattoos on this gorgeous creature only make me more fascinated by her.
“You know, there’s a lot to be said about a person’s choice in drink,” Lena says, and I meet her steady gaze again.
“Is that right?”
“Oh yeah. Trust me, I’ve spent enough time, in enough places, around enough people, to have an honorary degree.”
“A PhD in drinking?”
She shakes her head, a low, gritty giggle peaking with each turn. “A PhD in people. All a PhD in drinking gets you is liver disease.”
A smile starts at my face, but I swear to God, I feel it all the way in my chest. As a man in my industry, I’ve spent the last decade of my life in nightclubs, observing all kinds of people, drinking all kinds of drinks. I’m well versed in my own findings, but the intensity with which I’m curious about what she’s going to say suggests the opposite.
“If it’s beer, they’re laid-back. They don’t want anything too high-maintenance, and they don’t want to lose too much control.”
I nod, but she bites her lip and holds up a finger.
“Or…they have no idea what drinks are or what drinks mean or where to begin, so they just order the easiest thing on the menu.”
I laugh. “And what about wine?”
“Confidence and classiness. They usually don’t change their drink, no matter the venue. They know what they like and stick to it.”
She points down the bar, over my shoulder, and I twist around to follow her direction. “See her?” she asks. “With the vodka?”
I nod without turning around and watch surreptitiously as a redhead puts a straw to her lips and sucks down half of her glass.
“Those who prefer vodka are a good time. They love going out, they’re not about to fuck around, and they will most likely be the last one to go home at the end of the night.”
I turn back around just as Sergio slides our glasses between us and retreats to helping the rest of the thirsty mob.
Lena jerks her head at my glass and hums meaningfully. “And whiskey…well.” Her eyes are mischievous as she asks, “Are you sure you want to know?”
I laugh. “Go ahead. Tell me. What’s my whiskey mean?”
“Let’s just say it goes really well with a lack of smile.”
“Hey,” I contest. “I’ve been smiling a lot. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”
My eyes follow the line of her delicate neck to the silky skin of her cheeks and stop at her mouth—full, pink, and downright kissable fucking lips—as she wraps it around her straw and takes a sip.
Five minutes ago, I was consumed with a million different details and responsibilities related to this club. The bar, the kitchen, the security, the waitstaff—they’re all fluid features, best managed with a close eye and willingness to change. Even after this many years opening clubs, it’s impossible to get it right on the first night. Hell, it’s impossible to work everything out in less than a week.