Page 3 of The Close-Up
“Fuck it. Let’s do this.”
Liquid courage takes hold, and I stomp up to him, leaning my hand on the bar top. “Hey!”
Judging by the way his shoulders jump to his ears, I’m way too loud. I bite my lip to stifle a laugh. Uh-oh. I’ve hit the giggly marker of drunk.
He turns to face me. “Hey, yourself,” he chuckles.
I dry swallow the air in my throat. Just as I suspected: when this guy smiles, he is off-the-charts hot.
Gold-brown eyes, thick pouty lips, and a jawline so sharp you could cut diamonds on it. I pause at his nose. The crooked bump along the ridge tells me he must have broken it at some point. But instead of making his face look imperfect, he looks rugged. And yummy. Like a sexy caveman who broke his nose fighting off a saber-toothed tiger.
“You’re hot.” I immediately clamp my hand over my mouth. Not only does the alcohol have me operating at a deafening volume, it also seems to have misplaced my filter.
He bursts out laughing once more. “Oh. Uh, thanks.”
He rubs the scruff on his now flushed cheek. The facial hair he sports is thick but trim. Not a beard, but more than a five o’clock shadow.
“Sorry.” I hiccup. “I’ve had a bit too much to drink.”
“You don’t say?” He flashes that winning smile once more. My knees are actually weak.
“But you must hear that all the time, looking the way you do.”
He doesn’t answer right away. In the moment of silence that follows, I study him. Something about this guy is familiar, but I can’t put my finger on it.
“I don’t actually.” His eyes fall to the bar top, like he’s embarrassed about something.
“Well, I’m telling you. You’re mega, crazy, super-hot.”
His expression slides to amusement. Inside I feel a ping of pride at getting this guy to laugh and smile.
A fresh bout of dizziness hits me. This time it’s more intense, though. I swallow.
The handsome stranger’s eyebrows knit. “Are you okay?”
I nod, even though I’m not. I grip the bar top for stability.
Gently, he steadies me with a hand on my arm. “You sure?”
The look of concern in his eyes has me feeling something familiar again. Just then a tiny bell goes off in my head. I’ve seen him before, but without facial hair. I just can’t remember where or when...
I start to wobble, but this guy’s got me upright with just his hand. He’s still on the barstool, but he’s leaning on it now instead of sitting. The almost-standing position he’s assumed makes it look like he’s keeping guard for me. If I weren’t fighting to stay up, I’d swoon.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble. “It’s been...kind of a rough night.”
“Sorry to hear that.” Sincerity radiates in his eyes and his gentle tone. Even though he’s probably just being polite, it sounds like he means it.
“Do you wanna talk about it?” he asks. “Maybe over a glass of water?”
“Water? How smooth.”
The corner of his mouth quirks up. “On any other night I’d offer to buy you a proper drink, but it seems like you’ve already had a few.”
“And on any other night I’d admire you from across the bar instead of marching right up to you and calling you hot. I have two Amaretto sours and two bourbons to thank for that. Because I’m in fuck-it mode. And you are number one on my fuck-it list.”
The things my liquor-laden brain comes up with. Christ.
“What’s fuck-it mode? And a fuck-it list?”
