Page 6 of Kiss Me Tonight

Aspen

My spine snaps straight with awareness as the stranger gets comfortable beside me.

I don’t even have to look at him to know that he’s massive in a way most men aren’t.

So tall that he can sit at ease with one foot planted on the floor and the other languidly parked on my stool’s footrest.Who needs personal space nowadays, anyway?Not me, apparently. His bent knee is flush with my left thigh, and it can’t all be in my head—tipsy brain or not—that I catch him angling his big body to face me.

Like he’s possibly intrigued by what I have to say.

Even though I don’t know him from a hole in the wall.

Out of the corner of my eye, I watch as he flattens one hand on his thigh. Casual. Confident. No jittering knees—guilty—or any sign of flushed cheeks. Also guilty. Thanks to the candlelight—and, admittedly, the beer goggles I’ve donned since round two—he’s nothing but olive skin revealed by rolled-up sleeves, a hard jawline dusted with dark scruff, and the crooked bridge of his nose.

The black baseball hat he’s sporting unfairly obscures the upper half of his face.

After taking a moment to flag down Shawn and order a Bud Light, he props one forearm up on the bar. Then the distressed bill of his hat—not that store-bought frayed look, but honest-to-God tattered—swivels unerringly in my direction.

Oh, boy.

I blame the Guinness for the way my heart feels like it’s trying out forFear Factor, Adrenaline Edition.

Better to blame the beer than admit the truth: I don’t remember the last time a man other than Rick paid me any attention.

Don’t be weird. Act normal.

You can play it cool—

“Deserve what?” he asks again.

Here we go.I keep my gaze centered on the TV, where DaSilva is being carried off the field on a stretcher. “Having their tibia play peekaboo for the entire world to witness.”

Shawn shoots me a reprimanding glance at the graphic visual I offer, then slicks the Bud Light across the bar with an indecipherable grumble.

Who’s surprised when the stranger next to me catches the bottle with a cool flick of his wrist? Not me. He’s got the confident vibes of an athlete—and the bulky size to match.

I turn a little.

Just in time to watch him grasp the glass neck with three fingers. Full lips, the bottom one plumper than the top. They wrap around the bottle’s puckered mouth, then suck down the beer, his throat working smoothly.

Slow, precise movements.

For as Hulk-like as this guy is, he moves with a compelling grace.

Then he speaks again, and the idea of “grace” gets launched out the closest window.

“Happened to a guy I know. Hurt like a goddamn bitch.” Another deceptively nonchalant draw from his beer. “Can’t say anyone deserves a hit like that, asshole or not.”

Rough around the edges.

Gravel-pitched voice.

Clearly, he’s a fan of players like Dominic DaSilva, who retired from the league a few years ago. Much to Rick’s delight.

My cheeks warm from the embarrassment of being overheard. “You say it like you’re a hardcore fan.”

His bottle hesitates midway down to his knee. “Of DaSilva?”

I nod.

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