Page 12 of His

“The Razorbacks are in red; Louisiana is in white.”

I glance at the LSU T-shirts that some of the men around the pool table are wearing. “Now I see why you want to keep that a secret.”

Southerners are nothing if not loyal to the home team.

“Where are you from?” He asks.

“Las Vegas.”

“No kidding.”

I slid him the side-eye. “I’m not a stripper, Rick.”

“Dammit.” He winks, then asks what brought me to the Deep South.

Before I can conjure up a lie, I hear the door open behind us. A rush of warm air sweeps in, carrying on it a spicy, warm scent I’m very familiar with. A rush of awareness flies over my skin like a tidal wave. My pulse skyrockets and I suddenly find it hard to breathe.

I’m vaguely aware of Rick asking if I’m okay, but I can’t speak.

It’s not Wednesday or Saturday.

It can’t be him.

My eyes are glued straight ahead as Rick looks over his shoulder at the man whose shadow sweeps over me like a blanket.

“Sabine.”

My stomach falls to the floor.

Rick is now looking back and forth between us. “Uh, sorry, my man, but this seat’s taken.”

Flashbacks of Astor almost killing a man for speaking to me while at a charity gala in New York sends a shot of adrenaline through my veins.

Not again.

I’m just about to surge up and run away before the fight breaks out when I catch the glint of something gold.

Astor’s tanned hand slides between Rick and I, those strong, masculine fingers that can work miracles between my legs.

A gold Patek Philippe wristwatch is placed on the bar top.

“Not anymore,” Astor says to Rick.

“Holy shit!” Rick gawks at the watch worth seven figures, then, like a kid finding a twenty-dollar bill, he snatches the watch, slips it into his pocket and shoots off the barstool, disappearing before Astor can change his mind.

Astor lingers behind me. The blood rushing through my ears is almost deafening.

“May I sit, Sabine?”

I say nothing because it feels like a rubber band has been wrapped around my lungs.

His cologne sweeps past me as he settles onto the stool. Every sexual sensor in my body awakens. Every memory of our time together, every feeling I had, every smile, every laugh, every touch, every sensation barrels into me with the force of a logging truck.

“Whiskey on the rocks,” he orders from Josh, the barman.

We sit in silence until his drink is delivered.

I still haven't looked at him.

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