Page 31 of The Arrogant One
And now, as I sat in the middle of a bar that was full of what most would think were good-looking men, not a single one did anything for me.
Because physically, they didn’t compare to Lockhart.
“I still feel terrible,” Cat voiced.
“Don’t.” I continued to rub her. “You didn’t know. You couldn’t have even guessed. I mean, when have you ever called me and I was in a guy’s bed?”
Bryn snorted. “It should happen much more often.”
“It’s probably never going to happen again,” I confessed. “I’m truly not cut out for the one-night-stand thing.”
“Why?” Bryn asked. “Random sex would be the perfect stress reliever for you.” She winked. “Honestly, it would probably be the best stress reliever for all of us.”
I squeezed the stem of my glass. “Because if you were a fly on the wall, you would have thought he was into me. That this wasn’t the first time we’d met. That we’d already known each other’s body and what the other was craving. Our connectionwasthatsizzling.” I sighed. “Which is where the problem lies. I can see myself catching feelings—and one-night stands aren’t conducive for catching anything.”
“Aside from orgasms,” Cat said.
I groaned, “Yep.”
Bryn moved her drink out of the way so she could reach across the small table and put her hands on my forearm. “You have feelings for him.”
She didn’t phrase it as a question.
She was confirming what she suspected.
And it triggered an immediate reaction in me. A thumping in my chest, a pounding so hard that I had to cover it with my fingers to attempt to slow it. When that didn’t work, I released my heart and lifted my drink, holding it to my lips and swallowing. I wasn’t even tasting. I was chugging as quickly as I could, my eyes wandering at the same time. Because staring at my best friend would only confirm what she already knew. How could I admit out loud and to myself that I had developed feelings for a man I’d spent less than twelve hours with?
That I’d caught more than just orgasms.
Which was the most idiotic thing I could have done, considering I had no way to get in touch with him. I’d looked up Lockhart Wright, and there wasn’t one listed who lived in LA—at least according to Google. I had no idea what he did for a living and no clues that could lead me to him—besides that he was a rock star in bed.
To make matters even worse, not a single thing I looked at was holding my attention. Nothing in the bar. Nothing in the entrance. Nothing in the dining room or toward the back, nothing?—
My gaze halted on the table in the corner, where a foursome was sitting.
The face of one of the men was achingly familiar.
So familiar that I almost choked on my martini.
I blinked, trying to correct my vision, making sure what I was seeing was real.
I blinked again and again and again and?—
Shit.
The view didn’t change.
It was him.
Lockhart.
He shared the table with another man and two women, and it looked like he was on a double date, staring at the lady beside him, smiling and laughing at her in a way that reminded me of the way he had looked at me.
I wished I were in that chair, not her.
But did I?
He was the kind of man who went on a date only a week after he slept with me.
