“Her husband can fucking choke on a cactus.” He exhaled audibly. “I’ll catch you later, all right?”
I nodded, watching him head straight for the strippers.
Finally, I reached the bar and ordered myself a cherry martini. The bartender set in on the counter with a napkin. Two seconds later, I felt a breath at my bare shoulder. A young guy leered at me with a look he probably thought was smoldering, but really came off as creepy. “Hi.”
“Hi,” I chirped back.
“Can I buy you a drink?”
“No, thank you. I just bought one.” I gestured at my cherry martini.
“Can I buy you one after you finish it?”
Someone was pushy. “No.”
The creep leaned into my personal space. I pressed a hand to his chest and pushed him away with the same stern expression I gave my rowdy students when they ran in the hallways. “Please, back up.”
“Come dance with me,” he urged, grabbing my waist.
I slapped his hand away. “No.”
“Fine, you fucking whore. See if I care.”
He pivoted around and left.
I stood there, my grip clenched around my martini.
Did he just call me a fucking whore?
It wasn’t the insult that burned me like acid. It was the audacity. It was the fact that this prick thought he was entitled to address me and touch me when I’d never given him the greenlight.
Whatever. A drunk bozo wasn’t worth my wrath.
I turned back towards the bar and sat on a vacant stool, sipping my cherry martini in simmering anger. A part of me wanted to run back to that asshole and throw my drink all over him before kicking him where the sun didn’t shine.
You’re a smart, respectable, intelligent woman, Darla. Don’t let a low-lifer needle you likethis.
It was in the midst of my musings when I felt a presence beside me.
I tilted my head, and that’s when I sawhim.
Tall, chiseled, and so good-looking, he rendered me speechless.
His face was a beautiful medley of rough and classically handsome, showcasing tan skin, warm brown eyes, straight nose, rich full lips with a hint of imperiousness, and a strong jaw dusted with the kind of scruff that was more than a five o’clock shadow but less than a beard. His black hair was thick and swept back except for a lone strand that fell across his forehead in an artful way. I had the inexplicable urge to comb it back with my fingers.
He was robust, muscular, and over six feet. Donned in polished black loafers, tailored black slacks, pressed black dress shirt that clung to his strong physique with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing tattoos and an Audemars Piguet watch, he flirted with an air of nobility.
With an air that reeked old money.
The top three buttons of his shirt were undone and a gold chain with a cross nestled around his neck, just over a powerful chest dusted with fine black hair.
And he was staring straight at me.
Something suspicious like butterflies birthed low in my stomach. I met his gaze. Not challengingly. More inquisitive. Giving him the approval to approach me.
He looked a little bit older, perhaps early to mid-thirties. Sitting on a barstool not too far from me, he angled his big body my way as he raised his whiskey tumbler to his lips and took a long pull from his drink.
I watched in fascination as his Adam’s apple riffled in his corded neck and how his gaze never wavered from mine.