Page 5 of Remy

“No forgiveness necessary as long as I can get your name.”

I cringe, cursing the idiocy of my spying plan and how deep it’s taken me into the trenches of society. I really don’t like people. But I was raised to have impeccable manners, so I give an awkward smile and raise my gaze, taking in the expensive tailored suit. Black on black. No tie. The top two buttons of his collared shirt undone.

My attention climbs past a chiseled jaw with the faintest hint of dark-blond stubble to become ensnared on the darkest brown eyes peering back at me.

I blink. Twice.

Goddamn. His face matches the deliciousness of his voice—tousled dirty blond hair, warm tan skin, and a mouth that could inspire a wealth of wet dreams. Mine salivates for some ludicrous reason, and I suddenly become religious. There’s no way those plush lips weren’t sculpted by a god.

I clear my throat. “Ollie,” I blurt. “My name, it’s… Ollie.”

Ollie? Really?

I’ve never been Ollie in my life.

Olivia, yes. Liv, definitely.

Olivia Cassandra Pelosi whenever I’m in trouble? Absolutely.

But never, ever Ollie unless, apparently, I slip into an alternate universe where my grown ass can’t handle basic brain function around a handsome man.

“Nice to meet you, Ollie.” He flashes a subtle smirk, heavenly enough to create a slight dimple in his right cheek. “Let me buy you a drink.”

2

OLIVIA

The way he says my name—all confidence and charisma—has my pulse surging.

He oozes sinfully dangerous vibes with the profoundly teasing glint in his eyes sending a million red flags ascending to full mast in my mind. Flags my ovaries seem to mistake for green if the way they flutter is any indication.

“No, thanks.” I drag my gaze from all the gorgeousness to do another scan of the room. “I’m not staying.”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart, but I insist. You can’t bump into me like some fairy tale princess, then disappear from my life. That would be cruel.” His gaze lowers to take in my work clothes—white blouse, navy pencil skirt, and matching mini heels. “You don’t seem like the cruel type.”

My cheeks heat under his appraisal. My entire body follows. I should walk away. Skedaddle. The warm sensation weighing down my belly keeps me rooted in place.

I’m not used to being seen. By anyone. Let alone an attractive god who screams trouble.

I’ve never even met a man who fell into the bad boy category—not one that was breathing anyway. The closest I’ve come is when I’ve prepped tattooed gang members for cremation and the few men who had been incarcerated at the Baltimore Correction Center at their time of death.

Ivy was right; I need to get out more. The way my body has instigated a meltdown over this guy is ridiculous.

He strides around me, taking the few steps to the bar before gaining the female bartender’s attention with the jut of his chin. “Macallan, thanks.” His gaze returns to mine. “What do you drink?”

I open my mouth. Close it again.

I will not fold for this man. This deity.

I ignore him and continue the visual search for my father, not wanting to be out in public when whatever spell I’m under breaks.

From the corner of my eye I see the guy’s smirk increase, still understated yet impeccably striking. “Do you always play hard to get?”

“I don’t usually play much of anything.” Where the hell is my father?

“One drink, Ollie. That’s all I’m asking.”

God, why does he have to say my name like that? All sinfully rich and smooth as if the syllables dance around his tongue.

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