Page 9 of Kiss Me Tonight

A moment’s pause.

I hear Stuart/Stewart at the back of the pub arguing about the merits of the Patriots drafting a rookie quarterback next season.

I hear Shawn taking a new patron’s order.

And then—

And then the knee beneath my hands is quivering because the damn bastard is laughing.Laughing!Head tipped back. Throat elongated. One hand lifting to his chest like if he presses hard enough, he might have a chance to stem the flow of mirth.

I’m momentarily drunk-tracted by the sound.

Husky.

Low.

Sex bottled up in the form of masculine enjoyment.

I hate him on principle alone.

Grabbing my wallet from my clutch, I sloppily pull out a twenty and toss it on the bar. No change needed. There’s not a chance in hell I’m gonna wait around for it, all for the entertainment of the douchebag propped up next to me who thinks it’shilariousthat I dared to imagine he might be interested in me.

When I make a move to leave, the Hulk halts me with a hand to my shoulder. “Hey. You can’t drive home like this.”

“Ninety-percent asshole.”

If I could see his brows, I bet they’d be sky high right now. As it is, his mouth opens and then slams shut. “What?”

“You heard me,” I mutter, drawing my clutch to my chest like a shield from his overwhelming masculinity. “I don’t know where you’re from, buddy, but you’re clearly not a local.”

“California.” When I jerk my head up, he clears his throat. “Originally, I mean. I’m from San Francisco.”

Well, that explains it.

I met alotof Hollywood folks early on in my marriage to Rick, back when he still enjoyed toting me around like his toy of the month. Some were nice. Most were phony. All had a certain scent of privilege permeating through their pores. And this one here . . . my gaze catches on the gold Rolex encircling one thick wrist.

Yeah, he might be wearing an old-as-shit hat, but the watch weaves the complete story.

Rich.

Entitled.

Just like my ex-husband.

No doubt the Hulk is vacationing here in London, just like Rick was when I first met him that summer before my senior year.

“Word to the wise,” I say, pulling up the Uber app on my phone, “Londoners talk. A lot. If you’re sticking around long enough to give a shit about whether or not they talk aboutyou, I suggest digging deep into that non-asshole ten percent and learn to be a good person.”

“Be a good person, huh?”

I tap the screen to pull up the new street address that’s belonged to me for all of a month.

“Mhmm.” Without glancing up, I pat his shoulder like he’s a good dog. “It’ll be tough for you, considering all thoseold habitsyou’re going to have to kick to the curb, but I have faith in your abilities to turn your life around.”

“How gallant of you,” comes his soft, sardonic murmur, “considering you just met me.”

Satisfied that the Uber is only minutes away, I drop the phone into my clutch. “A memorable meeting, for sure. It’s not every day I start dreaming of ways to punch a hot guy in the face after only ten minutes of conversat—”

I go down.

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