Page 2 of Overexposed

The team in dark blue scored and the team in the lighter blue looked pissed. Two of the players shoved at each other, but they broke it up the minute the ref was on them. It might be fun to watch after all.

“What can I get you?” The bartender wasn’t model perfect, but he definitely had a good face and better hair. Five bucks and a pitcher of margaritas said he was an aspiring actor.

“Pitcher of the classic margaritas with a plate of nachos.” I kind of wanted a cheeseburger, but I’d pace myself. If I got a second pitcher, I’d get a second meal.

“Sure thing,” the bartender said, giving me a friendly little wink.

I kept my grin at friendly and let my gaze travel right past the flirt to the television. The guy to my right snorted when the bartender headed away and I glanced at him.

The black baseball cap shaded his eyes but didn’t do a damn thing to hide the strong jawline and chiseled cheekbones. I didn’t stare because (a) I didn’t care that he was sitting there except he was in my seat and (b) I was done for the day.

If he wanted to sit there pretending to be nobody, who was I to argue?

The smell of his nachos was making my stomach grumble, but Mr. Happy Wavy Hair with his expensive smile was back with the pitcher of margaritas, a glass, and a card with his name and number on it.

“Thanks,” I said, keeping the smile polite but distant and then glanced past him to the game. Oh, it was a commercial.Fine, whatever. The bartender lingered for a moment, wiping things down while I poured my drink.

“Another beer,” the seat usurper ordered in that bedroom baritone that melted women’s panties. I didn’t mind it, but I was a little more flame retardant.

“Sure,” the bartender took the distraction and went for his beer.

Blowing out a breath, I lifted my fresh glass of margarita in a half toast to the man on the right. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” he said, shifting a little on the stool. He was keeping his gaze fixed on the television. A little too fixed, like he wanted to make sure I didn’t think he was flirting with me.

Again, totally fine with me.

“I’m not who you think I am,” he informed me before the bartender returned with his beer. Thankfully the waitress needed him and a couple of fresh patrons took seats at the other end of the bar.

“You know,” I said idly, “I wasn’t going to comment, but yes, you are who I think you are.” The thousand-dollar smile was the thing heartthrobs were made of. It didn’t hurt that he had the body to back it up.

I’d clocked him as soon as I saw the jawline. The jeans, beaten-up boots, and plaid button-down over a cream-colored Henley were hardly a disguise. If he thought the baseball cap was working, he needed to get better advice.

“No,” he said, cutting me a look. “Trust me, I’m not.”

“Don’t know you well enough to trust you,” I retorted. “You know what I do know?”

He sighed. It was so long-suffering and put-upon, I was tempted to leave him be. “No,” he said, finally cutting those piercing blue eyes toward me. Damn, rough really did suit him. “What do you know?”

I touched my tongue to my teeth before I licked some of the salt right off the rim of my glass. Another mouthful of margarita washed it down perfectly. I held his gaze the whole time.

“What do I get if I’m right?”

His eyebrows shot upward. “What do youget?”

“Yes, what do I get? You think I’m wrong. I know I’m not. So what’s my prize if I get it right?”

He frowned, head cocked as he studied me for a long moment. “What do you want?”

Now that was a loaded question, but then my nachos arrived and the moment burst. Good, ’cause that first glass had already gone to my head and I was having a hard time not just throwing back this second one.

The bartender slid the plate in front of me and the combination of cheese, spices, and meat made my mouth water. Not to mention the warmth of the chips.

“Can I?—”

“You can go away,” my new friend told him.

The bartender blinked but retreated immediately.

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