Page 18 of Connectio
I. Beg. Your. Pardon.
“My name is Lib, or Elizabeth,” I say, teeth gritted.
He turns his body to face me then leans on his elbow against the bar, and I’m able to get a better look at him—short dark-brown hair, tousled and peppered with a sexy hint of grey, a well-groomed beard and moustache, and pouty lips to rival Brad Pitt’s. He’s wearing a white shirt—possibly a size or two too small—sleeves rolled up to his biceps that could be easily mistaken as basketballs.
I stare at them and they flex, so I blink and focus back on his face.
“I think I like Labia better,” he says and winks.
My eyes narrow into slits, nostrils flared, but I’m too furious to say anything.
“Gee.” He raises his hands. “Lib or Elizabeth it is then.”
“Thank you,” I say, my smile sarcastically sweet.
“So what would your royal highness Elizabeth like to drink?”
“Royal highness? Oh, please.” I roll my eyes. “As if I haven’t heard that before. And anyway, I’m quite capable of getting my own drink—”
“Actually,” the bartender interrupts, “they’re on the house.”
“Make that five Slippery Nipples and five Cum Shots,” Carly announces. “And they’re all for me.”
“Carly!” I scold.
“Labia!” she scolds back.
Will chuckles then slaps the bartender on the back in a familiar manner. “I’ll have a Red-Headed Leg Spreader.”
My jaw pretty much hits the floor, but the way he’s looking at me—eyes heavy, tongue darting over his bottom lip as if he wants to spread my thighs—I can’t help but press them together.
“Is that a real drink?” Carly asks.
“Yep.” Will keeps his eyes on me, and my body tingles in response.
Stupid body. It doesn’t know what it’s doing. He’s rude and pigheaded, and rude, and… Jesus, I like his arms.
“Can I get either of you ladies a drink as well?” the bartender asks, looking between Sal, Brooke, and me.
Sal slurps the last of her Cosmo in the most unladylike manner. “Yes, please, another one of these.”
Brooke holds up two fingers. “Make that two.”
Staring Will square in the eye, I say, “I’ll have a Maneater.”
He scoffs, and it makes me even more annoyed; my drink order was better than his.
The bartender busies himself with the drinks and moments later lines up Carly’s shots and Will’s stupid Leg Spreader on the bar.
She starts knocking them back.
“Got something to prove tonight?” Will asks.
She shrugs. “Maybe.”
“You may want to pace yourself.”
“Yes, Dad.”
