Page 2 of Not Mine to Keep

“Only as humorous as not recognizing an iconic song by Chris Stapleton.” Another wink from her, God help me. When had a wink from a woman ever made me feel, well, anything? “At least you had enough good sense to want to learn it.”

Mmm.I had enough good sense to know this wasn’t a woman I’d be walking away from tonight.

“Is it that obvious I’m not from around here?” I stepped away from the counter at the realization the bartender was too keenly tuned in to our conversation.

She followed me over to one of the high-top tables a decent distance away from the bartender’s continued scrutiny. “You’re not quite Mr. City Slicker. And I’m betting you go to these types of events all the time.” That teasing, sexy tone, and the way her tongue skirted the line of her lips, had me forgetting I was a city boy. “But yes, you stand out.” She indulged me with a smile. “In a sea of other rich people, I can still tell you’re not from around here.” She flipped her long, wavy blonde hair to her back as she gave me a slight nod.

I exhaled and counted back from three while reminding myself that although my little sister, Izzy, liked to joke my superpower was making women fall in love with me with just one look, I was never the one to become mesmerized.

And yet here I was, captivated by Little Miss Tennessee Whiskey. A.k.a. Calliope. A.k.a.mine.

“Maybe it’s your eyes. Something about them makes me—”

“Never seen gray eyes, Calliope?” My turn to tease, to drop my tone a bit lower. Lay on my charm. Channel my superpower. Because for one night, yeah, I wanted this woman to love me. Well, in the bedroom.

“Callie,” she rasped instead, her gaze flitting to the bartender as if putting two and two together on how I knew her name. “That’s what everyone calls me.”

“Except the bartender,” I blurted.

Her green eyes, rimmed in dark liner, narrowed on me. “We’re friends,” she whispered without breaking eye contact. The woman could beat me in a staring contest, which was saying a lot. I’d won quite a few bucks in middle school from staring down assholes who challenged me.

“He wants to be more than friends,” I said as casually as possible. “He used your given name like a term of endearment.” A quick pause before I couldn’t help but be blunt. “And men aren’t friends with women like you without hoping for more one day.”

A curious eyebrow lifted. “I think there was a compliment buried in there. But I guess you could say we’re more like ... work friends.”

Her decision to clarify and ease any potential concerns I had about Wonder Boy over there as he did a trick with the shaker had me taking a step closer, and I discreetly inhaled her perfume.

“We play together,” she murmured.

“Play?” The word rolled from my mouth almost in slow motion, and I eased back to afford us both more breathing room.

Red inched up her tan throat and moved into her cheeks, and she followed the hot path with her free hand. I didn’t take her for a blusher, given how she’d initiated the conversation with me tonight. But there it was. “Sorry, I mean music. We jam together.”

This had my attention. Not that she’d ever lost it. “You’re a musician?”

“No,” she said with a chuckle. “A teacher, actually.”

“Music teacher, then?”

She closed her eyes and tipped her face as if feeling the sunlight wash over her instead of the chandelier lights overhead. “No, high school history. I wouldn’t begin to know how to teach music. It’s just ... part of me, if that makes sense.” She opened her eyes and added, “Music is my hobby. Side-gig thing.”

The woman had such an innocent, ethereal look about her. Gorgeous eyes. A nose with the slightest lift that wasn’t overpowering, and wrinkled in a cute way when she smiled or laughed. Soft cheekbones. Luscious lips that’d be even more sinful once swollen from kissing.

She was elegance and grace all packaged inside that sparkly dress, and I was more than likely the antithesis to her.

I also had no clue to her age.Twenty-three? Twenty-eight?I couldn’t tell. But I had a hard limit of twenty-five as the youngest I’d sleep with, so I hoped she was closer to the latter. Thirty-five or older with no desire for kids or a husband was preferable when it came to the women I took to bed.

I probably should have walked away. But I didn’t. In fact, I stayed glued in place when she tossed out, “Not that you’d know about side gigs.”

Those light-colored eyes flew over my simple black suit as I continued to study her, and she went ahead and studied me right back.

No tie tonight. Not my style. Just a plain black shirt beneath the jacket. Custom-made in Italy. Brioni, one of my preferred designers.

“What you’re wearing probably costs more than I make in a month. And my guess, your car back home is worth more than I’ll ever save up in this lifetime and the next,” she rambled, as if trying to explain why I wouldn’t know a thing or two about side gigs.

When her eyes zeroed in on my crotch, my dick decided to twitch in greeting; those long lashes of hers flitted a few times before she lifted her almond-shaped eyes to mine.

But also, it sure felt like she was suggesting my fancy car and clothes (her judgments of me ... all accurate) were an overcompensation for something (notaccurate, because my dick was not in the lacking department).

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