“You’re not paying for my drink. I was in your way.”
I dug in my bag, trying to find the credit card I kept in the zippered interior pocket for absolute financial emergencies. I shoved it at the server.
“Stop,” he said, reaching to grab my wrist. “You don’t have to pay.”
“It's a three-hundred-dollar bourbon,” the server said.
I dropped my credit card and stared at her. “A bottle?”
“A glass.” She shot me a gleeful look, taking in my dress, which was from a discount store. Cute as hell, thank you very much, but not designer and not expensive.
I had made thrifting and bargain hunting something of an art form. It might even be called a hobby. To think that the little splash of liquor in that glass cost more than I’d spent on my wardrobe all year was mind-boggling.
I cleared my throat, my palms starting to sweat. That bourbon better taste like liquid gold and give him a hand job for that kind of money. “That’s fine,” I said, trying to sound casual. Like it was no big deal and not actually have the potential to give me a heart attack.
But the man was already retrieving my credit card from the counter. “No, it’s not. Put it on my tab.” He looked at her name tag. “Tiffany. Thank you.”
Tiffany looked disappointed that he was rescuing me from my faux pas but she nodded. “Of course, Mr. Beckett.”
When she moved away I took a deep breath, hoping there was a polite way to ask for my credit card back, which he was still holding. I picked up a napkin and dunked it in the water. I liberally blotted the wet bourbon spot on his shirt, trying not to think about how muscular he seemed to be under that fabric and how long it had been since I’d had a man in my bed.
“What makes a bourbon that expensive?” I couldn’t resist the question because that seemed like a lot of money for about two fingers of booze.
“It’s rare. They only made like nine hundred bottles of it thirty years ago.” He shrugged. “A buddy of mine started his own distillery and was telling me about it. I was curious to taste it.”
“And what does it taste like?”
“Bourbon.”
That made me laugh. “I should hope so.”
He smiled. “I don’t think I’m sophisticated enough to know the difference. I do not have a refined palate. Though I think there is a vanilla hint.”
“I’m not even sure I have a palate.” I reached into my bag and rooted around until I found a stain stick. I pulled the cap off. Quickly, I rolled it over his shirt, not wanting to linger.
“I find that hard to believe, Mia,” he said. “You seem like a woman with a lot of layers.”
“How do you know my name?” I capped the stick and met his gaze, my heart starting to pound a little faster than it should.
“It’s on your credit card.” He held it up between his thumb and forefinger. “Mia Abernathy.”
“Oh.” Duh. I reached out for it. He shifted it away from me. I was more amused than I was nervous. It wasn’t like he could rack up a bill on that card. I had about two hundred dollars’ worth of available credit, not even enough to buy his bourbon shot. “Stalker,” I said, impressed with my flirtation skills despite their lack of use.
He laughed. “Says the woman who has been all over me for the last five minutes.”
The bartender silently slid his bourbon over to him and he lifted it to his lips for a sip.
I raised my eyebrows. “I wiped a stain. That’s all over you? That seems like a stretch. I was just trying to be helpful. I’m like that. Super helpful.” I dropped the stain stick back into my bag. “Toss your shirt if you want—fill in the blank with your name here.”
“It’s JJ.”
“JJ Beckett, enjoy your bourbon,” I said, gripping the end of my credit card and tugging it, trying to extract it from his large hand. He didn’t release it. “Now give me my card back.”
“Only if you agree to have a drink with me.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “I’m not a fan of blackmail.”
He released my credit card. “Then have a drink with me because you spilled bourbon on my shirt.”
I tucked the card away in my bag, more entertained than I wanted to admit. “I don’t like guilt either.”
“How about because you find me sexy and charming and intriguing in a James Bond kind of way? My real name is actually James. Feel free to use it.”
For a second, I hesitated, then I thought I would have to be an idiot to say no. I’d been willing to meet up with Kyle, a total stranger. Why not spend ten minutes talking to this guy? It was my night off, which didn’t happen that often, and I liked my outfit, personally. The short velvet dress with the empire waist made me aware of how long it had been since I’d put much attention into my appearance. This was the first time in months I’d even bothered to do my hair and makeup. Did I really want to go home and put on pajama pants again? No. No, I did not.
He was sexy.
I slipped onto the stool next to him.
“I can work with that, James,” I said.
Chapter Two
JJ
A boring night had just gotten way more interesting. Thank God. I’d been on the verge of falling asleep sitting at the bar, bored with my routine, craving excitement, and disappointed my buddy had cancelled on me at the last minute, even though he had a good reason.
Mia, from housekeeping apparently, plunked her giant handbag on the bartop. It was the size of carry-on luggage and beat to hell and back. It looked like she had dragged it through a river and ran it over with her car. The fabric was undetermined but could best be described as carpet. It was as quirky and offbeat as she seemed to be.
I had actually been on the way to talk to her when she had popped out of her chair unexpectedly and plowed into me with that giant bag. For the twenty minutes prior I had been watching her and it was obvious she had been stood up. She kept checking her phone, glancing toward the door, waving off the server, and growing more and more irritated looking as she slowly sipped her one martini. Bored with my own company, and hating that she had that self-conscious expression on her face, I had intended to offer for her to join me.
Instead, she’d smacked into me, and then had proceeded to tend to me like it was of the utmost importance that she save the life of my Hugo Boss dress shirt. I didn’t care about the shirt. I had a dozen more at home.
What I did care about was the fact that Mia didn’t seem to have a clue who I was.
Not to be an asshole about it, but when you play pro football, sometimes people know who you are. At six foot five I tended to stand out in an average crowd anyway. Ninety percent of the time, I enjoyed the attention. Who wouldn’t love the admiration of little kids playing peewee football? But sometimes, with women, it got old, the fakeness of it all.
I raised my hand for the bartender, who I knew would come over immediately. She’d seen my own credit card with my name on it and had commented about the postseason prospects. She knew I was a pro football player with a fat bank account and she wanted a great tip and maybe something more. She’d been flirting with me all night, but I wasn’t interested, not because she wasn’t attractive, but because I knew she just wanted to wake up in bed with a player and go home and brag to her friends. It was just… played out. Been there, done that. Or more like been there, done a different version of her.