I’m all the way at the other end in the corner, where I can see everyone else. There’s an empty stool next to me, but the rest of the place is buzzing with life.
I keep drinking, sucking down the delicious cocktail as I people watch. It seems to be mostly groups of men and women at the tables. The floor is packed with bodies, though, couples dancing and laughing. I’m sure some don’t even know each other; they’re simply here doing what I’m doing: looking for someone to get into trouble with.
Maybe just to flirt, to feel someone against their skin. Maybe to share a kiss or two. I suck on the straw and air slips in, making that familiar white noise sound. I have to shake the cup to move some of the ice out of the way, frowning as I realize I’ve already gone through my drink in a matter of minutes ...
It’s not that there wasn’t enough in the glass. It’s that it was simply that easy to drink it down.
“You need another?” a friendly masculine voice, not the professional one of the bartender, asks from my right. Just hearing that deep baritone stirs up jitters in my stomach. I can feel his presence before I see him. He’s tall, much taller than I am, which is more than obvious when he sits down on the stool next to me and I have to crane my neck to look up at him.
This place has sleek, minimalistic décor; the seat beneath this man isn’t enough for him. It’s too simple for a man with obvious rough edges. His shirt clings to his broad shoulders as he leans against the bar, folding his arms so the muscles in his forearms coil all the way up to his biceps.
His charming smile only adds to the draw he has. The air bends around him, and every woman in this place is eyeing him up. If Man Candy Mondays had a mascot, this man would be it.
It takes him smirking at me, letting out a gruff sound of humor from between his perfectly white teeth, for me to realize I haven’t answered him.
I feel dizzy, warm and fuzzy. It’s the drink, I tell myself. Slipping the straw back into my mouth and finishing off the last tiny bit, I add, I’m a bad liar.
“Yes please, if you’re offering,” I say as seductively as I can and my legs sway a little from side to side, my nerves betraying me as the words slip out. In my long walk down here, I forgot one very important thing … It’s been five years since I’ve flirted with anyone. I may be a touch rusty.
He leans back, giving me a good view of his broad chest which looks like it’s been carved from marble.
In dark jeans and a thin black T-shirt, he looks blue collar through and through. Someone who works with his hands and all that physical labor only makes him that much sexier.
Mistake number two: accepting a drink from this man.
He’s too good looking. Too charming. Too practiced at this game of “can I buy you a drink?” flirtation.
“You go here?” I ask to make small talk as he lifts his hand to get the attention of the bartender, busy making another drink. The bartender nods after my new company gives him the order: another for her, and an IPA, tall.
“No,” he says with a shake of his head and turns his full attention to me. “You?”
The drink appears in front of me before I know it. And with my pointer finger and thumb keeping the straw steady, I do my best to keep up conversation while reminding myself that I’m supposed to be flirting.
“Yup, art history major.”
“Oh yeah? What are you going to do with that?” he asks, lifting the beer to his sculpted lips. He never takes his eyes off of me. I like it. I crave his attention more than I should.
I shrug as if I don’t have it all planned out. Because I don’t, not anymore. Robert’s family owns a museum just outside of town and I always thought I’d work there. So much for that idea. I’ll be looking at any other museum in the country than the one with his family’s name on it.
The thought is unwelcome and a new sense of loss washes over me. I take a good long sip before picking out a blueberry to suck on.
“You live around here then?” I ask, desperate to change subjects.
“Visiting a friend.”
I glance behind him and then turn to get a better view of the place. “Where is he?” I presume his friend is male and then correct myself, adding, “Or she?”
He shakes his head once, placing both his hands on the bar and tapping his thumbs like they’re drumming to the music. “No she.”
The answer warms me and I have to put my drink down for a moment before I find this one gone too quickly as well.
“He is busy tonight and left me to look after his place while he’s out of town.”
“So you’re house-sitting?” I ask and finally get a good look at his eyes. They’re baby blue, such a pale shade. It’s not fair how God made some people roam this earth looking like sex on a stick.
“Yeah, I’ve got the time and he had to head out on short notice.”
“Work let you off without a problem?” I say, wondering what he does for a living.
“I work for myself. So yeah.”
“Entrepreneur?” I ask to pry further, wondering if he’s lying and this is a pickup routine he does. If it is, it’s working.
I’ve never thought of myself as horny. Especially since I’ve been in a long-distance relationship for three years and going without sex never bothered me. Sitting next to Mr. Right Now, though … I am not too far away from being all-out needy.
The conversation is easy and flows. Every time I laugh, my knees sway a little too much to the right and brush against him. One time his hand grazes them and with the light touch I can feel those sparks other people talk about.
Time passes, and I feel all sorts of things I’m not sure I’ve ever felt before. It’s all so new and I wonder if this is what Sharon refers to when she talks about “first flirt jitters.”
“You have an accent,” he says and I laugh at the comment, a little too loud. Rolling my eyes, I set down the shot glass, our second together, on the polished bar and look at it rather than those piercing blue eyes I can feel drifting down the crook of my neck.
I wonder if he’s thinking about kissing me there. With his rough stubble, I imagine it would feel coarse and scratch my neck. Heat simmers along my skin, but it’s even hotter between my thighs. I wonder for a moment what it would be like to feel his stubble down there. I want to feel that. I want to feel what that’s like.
Am I really going to do it? I think as the shots finally seem to hit my brain, making me a little more blurred than fuzzy.
“I think I’ve had enough,” I say, my voice full of humor and I know the smile is still present on my face. I can feel one plastered there. I’m a chicken. I’ve always been a little scaredy-cat.
“What’s wrong?” he asks and he reaches out to help me get off the barstool. I’m a little too short and grateful for the help. But the second his skin touches mine, electricity ignites, every nerve ending coming alive.
The barstool scrapes against the ground as I get up, trying to stand on my own.
My feet slip back into my heels and I stumble, caught off guard by the slight hint of pain. With a yelp from my lips, my hand reaches out to grab on to something, anything.
I didn’t need to, because he’s quick to wrap his own strong arm around my back. He’s all hard muscle, coiled around me tight. Being this close to him, his masculine scent hits me suddenly. It’s like a cool breeze across the sea. Fresh with a hint of rain coming. He smells like home.