Page 6 of One Big Little Secret

Undaunted, he licks his lips and leans closer.

Disgusting.

If I had to guess, he thinks he’s a young stud here when he’s probably in his late thirties. But I don’t have to guess.

His strong cologne nearly knocks me out, and his dark hair is slicked back and tapered like a skunk.

“Quit fucking around. You’re the hottest girl in this bar,” he breathes, the beer heavy on his breath. No clue how many he’s had, but it’s five too many.

“I’m the only girl at this bar right now,” I say. The only pathetically single one, anyway, judging by a couple older women with men in the corner. “But look, I’m not interested. Wanna take a hint?”

That wandering hand grips my arm, tightening.

“Sounds like you don’t date much,” he growls. “I’m paying your tab.”

“Which is totally illegal. I’m underage.”

“Bullshit. How old are you really?”

“Old enough to know a few drinks don’t entitle your touchy ass to anything.” I’ve had it. I try to shake him off, but he won’t budge. “Seriously. Let go, dude.”

I don’t get worried until he laughs.

“Like hell. I can show you a good time, missy. I’m staying the night below deck.”

Sweet Jesus.

If I hadn’t finished my drink, it would be dripping off his face right now.

At least I’m wearing heels. I know from personal experience they can do some damage when they slam into a man’s—

“Excuse me,” a deep voice rumbles smoothly from the side.

I turn to see coppery-brown hair, sharp blue eyes, and a jawline worthy of the Himalayas. It’s Mr. Twelve from earlier, and he’s younger up close, maybe mid-twenties.

He’s also standing close enough to touch, looking mighty pissed.

Then hedoestouch me, placing a hand on my shoulder and stroking his way down to my hand.

This is it.

My end.

I’m going to die right here on this riverboat by spontaneous combustion. Or maybe I’m already dead from too many drinks and this is a weird kind of afterlife.

Touchy-Feely narrows his eyes at Mr. Twelve.

“Who the hell are you?”

“Her fiancé—and you must be the clown asking stupid questions,” Twelve lies—and so convincingly I believe him for a split second. “The question is, how long do I give you?”

“What? What the hell are you saying, man?” He fumbles for a second and finally releases me.

“That’s what I thought.” Twelve pulls me off the chair and into his arms. “You okay, baby?”

With you? I’m okay personified.

He’s dreamy. Positively sinful up close, which rarely ever happens, and he has the shoulders of an angry god, tensed like steel as he holds me.

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