Page 21 of Over the Moon

The smell of whiskey and cedarwood flooded my senses. He stood so close his finger grazed mine on the bartop.

Maybe it was the booze or maybe it was just the man himself.

His scent, his body heat, it did something to me.

Even when we were in the gym, this man had an air about him.

He oozed charm and was too sexy for his own good.

He nudged me with his shoulder, pulling me from my daze as I gaped at him.

I shook it off, chuckling a little, as if I just got lost in thought.

I needed to be a professional.

But being here outside of work, with country music playing and two beers in my system, it was obvious that talking to him was a bad idea.

A terrible idea.

Maybe the worst idea.

I thought the man looked good in his gym clothes and his briefs, but something about the way he looked tonight had my stomach fluttering. He wore dark jeans and worn-in cowboy boots. A white tee stretched across his muscled chest, and I licked my lips in response before clearing my throat and forcing myself to pull it together.

“Here you go.” Jazzy, one of the bar owners and a friend of Emilia’s, slid the two beers across to me, and I reached for some cash, but Clark handed her the money before I could get it out of my purse.

“Thank you, but you didn’t need to do that,” I said, as I turned around, my back pressed against the bar.

His eyes scanned me from head to toe, making no effort to hide his perusal. I’ve caught him doing it a few times at the gym in the mirror, but he’d never been this blatant.

Obviously, I wasn’t the only one drinking tonight.

“It’s the least I could do after you stepped up and took my place in pickleball.” He thanked Jazzy when she handed him the glass of straight whiskey. “Don’t judge. I don’t drink during the season, and tomorrow is my one day off a week from training, so I’m indulging a little.”

“I wasn’t judging,” I said, as my heart raced at his nearness.

Why was I nervous?

I worked with him six days a week.

I set my beer down on the bar top. I should stop drinking immediately.

“No? What were you doing then, Weeze?” His voice was smooth as silk, and the corners of his lips turned up.

My God. He was six foot four inches of pure man.

Broad shoulders, muscular arms, chiseled abs.

His light green eyes were flanked by long black lashes that most women would pay big money for.

And I only knew these specifics because I had all his stats as the team PT, not because I was constantly staring at him when he wasn’t looking.

Okay, fine, sometimes I stared.

But his height was public record.

The rest was just—observation.

“Can I grab a water please?” I asked when Jazzy walked over and set another whiskey down for him.

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