Page 29 of Strike Zone

“What about the blond one? He has a nice smile.”’

“He’s short. I have four-inch heels on.”

“Then he’ll be at the perfect height to motorboat you.”

I spray a mouthful of my drink. Brooke caught me off guard with that one. “Oh my God!”

“He’s out. He just saw you spitting your margarita all over me.”

“Tell me I have other options. The rest of this crowd is scraping the bottom of the barrel. Maybe we need to look elsewhere.”

“Just give me a minute.” Brooke grabs a napkin off the bar and wipes at her top where I showered her with my margarita. “There are plenty of guys in here. What are you looking for?”

“Hot, fit, and taller than Danny DeVito. Is it too much to ask for a single guy who knows his way around a woman’s body?” She surveys the rest of the bar. When did it become impossible to find a hot guy for the night?

“Anders.”

“Stop gloating. You’re doing a shot for that, maybe two.”

“Linc?”

“Definitely not. He might know his way around a woman’s body, and he’s unbelievably sexy…”

“I knew I was sexy, but unbelievably? You’re too kind, southpaw.” A shiver runs down my spine at the sound of his voice, sending a jolt of desire straight to my core. The deep rasping tone with a hint of wickedness that’s so sensual when he’s groaning my name as he comes.

Shit.

I turn to face him before realizing his proximity. The scent of his cologne is delicious, and the way his crisp white shirt highlights the planes of his chiseled physique should be illegal. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Brooke is too busy sucking face with Anders to explain why she invited them to join us.

“I should be asking you the same question. Are you stalking me, Diana? Anders and I just came out for a few drinks, and here you are, dressed to kill, waxing lyrical about how sexy I am.”

“God, you’re awful.”

I signal the bartender for another drink. “Make it the fishbowl, frozen margarita this time. And a whiskey for the jackass. Just double up the order. My backstabbing sister and her man will want a drink when they come up for air.”

“Buying me a drink. Are you planning to get me drunk and have your way with me?” My insides turn to Jell-O with one sinful wink of his ice-blue eyes.

“I’d rather smother myself in honey and punch a beehive than take you home to my bed.”

His wicked grin sends my pulse racing. “Then come home to mine.”

“Did you not hear the part about the bees?”

“I heard something about you smothered in honey. Everything else after that is a blur. Just so we’re clear… you’re naked in this scenario, and I’m the beehive.”

“So I can punch you?”

“Whatever turns you on, southpaw.” He leans in, his lips ghosting a caress on my cheek. “Whatever you want.”

I hover for a moment, letting him make a move before grabbing my drink from the bar behind him and heading for the dance floor. The beat of the music is all I hear as I repeat the same sentiment over and over.

Do not take him home. Do not take him home. Do not take him home.

As much as I try to ignore Linc, my eyes are drawn to where he stands, leaning against the bar with effortless finesse, his steely gaze fixed on me. I’m mesmerized as he lifts his glass, his tongue darting out to meet the amber liquid before it reaches those perfect lips.

My heart is hammering in my chest, so far past a gallop, I’m worried I’ll drop dead of a heart attack at any moment. I can just see the headlines now.

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