Page 2 of Playboy Pitcher
Not that I care. I’m not here to make friends.
Rolling my eyes, I go back to slapping napkins all over my drenched body. “She’s lucky someone hasn’t shoved a broom up her ass.”
A lazy smile spreads against his glass. “That would make riding it home a little awkward.”
A sudden wave of silence should have ended our conversation, but then I glance down at the dozens of paper squares stuck all over me like a fucking napkin onesie, and something inside me snaps. The laugh starts low, then launches out of my mouth like a damn space shuttle. The harder I laugh, the more those little pink napkins flutter to the floor, but I don’t care. I’m wet. I’m tired. I’m frustrated. I’m pissed I’m stuck at a bar in West Palm Beach. But most of all, I’m mad at the reason why.
Sighing, I ball the napkins and toss them on the bar.
“Looks like you’ve had a hard night.”
There it is again. That contradictory timbre in his voice. It skates down my spine again, causing me to glance out of the corner of my eye just in time to watch hat guy toss back the rest of his drink. “You have no idea.”
“Well, I can’t change the past, but I can buy you a drink and make it better.”
My hand stiffens mid-swipe. Twisting around, I stare at him, waiting for a punchline that never comes. “Wow. Does that line ever work for you?”
The cocky he has worn since I sat down fades. Something tells me he’s used to getting what he wants; an assumption confirmed when he lifts the brim of his hat and pins me with a set of narrowed eyes.
“What was that?”
Whoa.Narrowed arctic ocean blue eyes. The kind of eyes that could pierce right through your soul. Hypnotic. Commanding. Powerful enough to render a woman immobile and then coax her right off a cliff.
Eyes that are now staring at me like I have two heads and a forked tongue.
For the love of God, pull it together, Willow.
Clearing my throat, I fold my arms across my chest and shrug. “You’re attractive and all, but if that’s the best you’ve got, you must go home alone a lot, huh?”
He blinks. Slowly, the corners of his lips curl up, and that damn cocky smirk reappears. “Well, it appears I am tonight. So, maybe you should just accept the free drink. You know, since I obviously have zero game.” His smirk splits into a grin. A stupid, perfect grin with straight, white teeth and…Really? Dimples? Crater-sized dimples on both cheeks.
Before I can stop it, a genuine laugh slips out. I’m surprised at how much tension it releases. Maybe being stuck here isn’t so bad. Maybe I can put thoughts of tomorrow out of my head and live in the moment.
At least until the storm passes.
Besides, the company isn’t completely unbearable. And now that I can see his face, there’s no doubt he’s exactly my type: dark hair, blue eyes, wicked smile, scruffy face, and not one loyal bone in his body.
Typical bad boy. I do have a pattern.
Fuck it.Carpe diem.
I smirk back. “Well, you don’t havezerogame.”
He chuckles as he lifts his beer, and I hate myself even more because it makes my stomach feel like I swallowed a bunch of drunk spiders. Licking a thin line of foam from his bottom lip, he sets the mug down and narrows those piercing eyes. “On a scale from one to ten.”
He’s baiting me, so I tap my index finger against my lips, pretending to think. “One point five.”
Grabbing his chest, he flops back in his chair. “Ouch.”
He’s laying it on a bit thick, but somehow the bastard makes it seem endearing. “Maybe two.” Tipping my chin, I motion toward the emblem on his hat. “But only for being a Yankees fan.”
For a split second, his smile dulls, and I catch a crack in that arrogant exterior. However, as quickly as it appears, it vanishes under a layer of crafted charm. “I’ll take it. So how about that drink?” Before I can say no, he holds up both palms. “No strings attached. My ego is bruised enough.”
My brain thinks of a hundred reasons why I should say no, but my rain-soaked body reminds me I’m stuck in a bar with no phone, no money, and no options. Besides, I could really use a drink.
A strong one.
“You buying?”
