Page 8 of Kiss Me Tonight

I’m blinking so fast, I’m half-convinced I’ve developed a sty in the five minutes since he sat down and interrupted my otherwise boring evening.

Quiet.

I meant my otherwisequietevening.

Snapping my head to the side, I press my hand to my ear in disbelief. “I’m sorry. Did you just sayold habits die hard?”

What. A.Jerk.

It’s one thing to confess he’s not attracted to me, and another to go in for themoment—you know the one—the meaningful look, the throaty, sexy laughter that all but signals foreplay, orgasms, and expert make-out sessions—and play a game of takesy-backsies.

Takesy-backsies shouldn’t even beallowedonce you’ve spotted your first gray hair in your pubes. And I’m five in, ladies.Five. Maybe more. I wouldn’t know, since I have my esthetician regularly wax the suckers out and call it a day.

Goodbye,evil age reminders.

I reach for my clutch by my empty pint and pop it open. I’m fully prepared to drop cash on the bar for Shawn and get the hell out of dodge when the Hulk grunts out, “Look. Listen.”

Hands clasped together, I turn to him, brows arched in expectation.

Unfortunately for him, I’m not in the habit of accepting casseroles in place of apologies like my mother.

I spent fourteen years kissing Rick’s ass and I’ll be damned if I do the same for a stranger. I don’t care how muscular his arms are or that his chest is wide enough for me to curl up and take a nap alongside my nonexistent cat.

The Hulk hooks a finger in the collar of his black shirt. Then drops his hand to the bar, fingers closed in a fist. “Listen—”

“You said that already.”

That tight fist unfurls until his fingers are digging into the mahogany bar, leaving me with the distinct impression that I’m poking a not-so-hibernating bear.

Bring it.

“You’re cute,” he says, like I should be gratefulfor the assessment. Like I’m not a woman closing in on forty with a teenage son and goddamn gray hairs threatening to sprout at any moment from my nether regions.

A puppy is cute.

A kid in kindergarten is cute.

I amnot—

“Cute,” he repeats with oblivious male arrogance, “but I’m not looking to pick anyone up tonight.”

For possibly the first time in my life, I’m rendered mute.

If Topher knew, he’d commemorate the moment by marking it as a national holiday.

If my mom knew, she’d whip out her phone and get me on the first dating app she could find—all before I could protest about not wanting to meet a guy right now.

Which I don’t.

I’mnotlooking, which doesn’t at all explain why I’m contemplating rearing back an arm and busting this guy in the jaw. Clearly, this delicious-looking douchebag has inspired a bout of insanity—it’s the only reason I have for envisioning the dimple puncturing the center of his chin being used as bull’s-eye practice for my fist.

Wishing his hat wasn’t in the way, so I could, at least, stare daggers at him with surefire accuracy, I growl, “No wonder you’re taking up for Dominic DaSilva. Kindred spirits, after all.”

“Yeah?” He drains his Bud Light. When he pulls the bottle away, his damp lips glisten. Then they glisten even more when he runs his tongue along them. Unwanted heat gathers in my core, just as he taunts, “How’s that?”

Feeling emboldened by how much I’m growing todislikethis man, I leverage my weight by dropping my hands to his single bent knee. Beneath his dark-washed jeans, hard muscles flex and unclench under my fingers.

“Here’s a clue,” I clip out succinctly, “you’re both assholes.”

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