I’m bored. Like, really bored. I’ve spent most of the night at this ridiculous bachelorette party with people I barely know, and I’m so ready for it to be over. Normally, I have a strict only go to the parties of people I care about rule, but what was I supposed to do when Skye invited me to this thing? Say no?
Not super impressive considering we work together. Even less impressive considering, while my mom is off trying to reaffirm who she is by practicing spiritual meditation in India, I’m the boss. And the boss can’t blow off an employee invitation, no matter how much he or she wants to. Not when the business is as small and close-knit as ours is.
Which is why I’m sitting here in the middle of this ridiculously upscale bar watching women in penis hats swill drinks and talk dirty about whatever man happens to pass by the table . . . It’s my own personal version of hell, and I’m pretty sure I’m doing a lousy job disguising that fact.
Then again, I’m not sure it matters considering I’m the only sober one at the table right now—which is obvious by both my lack of penis hat and my ability to keep my mouth shut no matter who walks by. Being the boss means I had to come to this little shindig. But there’s no boss or girl code in the world that says I have to wear a dick on my head or drink out of a straw shaped like one. And even if there was . . . well, that’s one code I’d have no trouble breaking.
“You need another drink,” Autumn—one of the other instructors at my mom’s yoga studio—tells me with a giggle.
“Come on. Let’s go to the bar.”
I don’t want to go to the bar. And I sure as hell don’t want another drink. Even though Skye has a limo booked tonight, which means that even though I drove myself here I don’t have to drive myself home, I still have a two-drink limit when I’m at a bar. Any bar. If I’ve learned anything through the years, it’s that everything’s easier when you’re stone-cold sober—which is why it’s been an hour since I’ve had anything to drink but water.
Still, I follow her. It’s not that hard of a choice, considering the rest of our party has just started singing dick songs. Because why not? It’s not enough to drink out of a dick and eat dick cake and whistle at every dick that walks by while wearing a giant dick on their heads. They need to sing an homage to the damn things, too.
Maybe it’s time to say to hell with the limo and get out of here instead . . . except Autumn’s grabbed on to my arm and a lifetime of yoga has rendered her a lot stronger than she looks. With a sigh, I acknowledge that I’m not going anywhere until she releases me.
We’re halfway to the bar when I see him. I’m so annoyed that I almost don’t pay attention, but—let’s be honest—I’d have to be dead not to notice this guy. Notice him, hell, just knowing he’s in the room is suddenly taking up all the oxygen.
Or maybe it’s just that I’ve forgotten how to breathe.
But can you blame me? With a fallen angel face, eyes that glitter like black diamonds, and a stubble-covered jaw that’s sharp enough I can feel the cut from here, he’s the hottest thing in this place. Maybe the hottest thing anywhere. Tall, dark and drop-dead freaking gorgeous. And that’s before you take into account the shoulders wider than my zip code and the biceps to die for.
Is it wrong that I want to lick him? I wonder as I shift to get a better look. Because I do. I really, really do. Those narrow hips. That silky-looking, too long hair. Those big hands that wrap all the way around his glass and then some. No wonder it feels like all the oxygen has been sucked out of this place. He’s like a personal playground designed especially for me.
And that’s before he glances up, his eyes meeting mine across the dimly lit bar.
Normally, I’d look away. I’m not the type to eye-flirt a stranger in a bar. Or anywhere else, for that matter. But the moment our gazes lock, I forget about normal. Forget about usual. And instead try to keep my panties from dropping straight to the floor.
It’s harder than it should be, especially considering I’m wearing pants.
I press my legs together, just to be on the safe side. And that’s when he smiles, a wide, come-hither kind of grin that hits me straight in the feels . . . plus a few other, oh-so-memorable parts. He shifts a little, rests his elbows behind him on the bar. Stretches his long, long, looooong legs out in front of him. And looks like he doesn’t have a care in the world. And like he expects me to approach him.
Which is so totally not going to happen. I’ve already made prolonged eye contact with the guy. Actually walking up to him—a gorgeous stranger who obviously has an ego to match—is so not in the cards. I mean, it’s not that I’m ugly or anything. I have a reasonable amount of confidence in my own attractiveness. But there’s attractive and then there’s whatever that guy is, and I am honest enough to admit I’m not in his class. Hell, I’m not even sure he has a class . . . he might be the only one of his kind on the planet.
“What do you want to drink, Sage?” Autumn asks, and there’s a hint of impatience in her voice, like she’s asked the question a few times. It snaps me out of my trance—I swear, it’s like I’ve been dickmatized or something—and I decide what the hell.
“I’ll have another lemon drop,” I tell her, breaking my self-imposed limit just this once. It’s already been an hour since I had a drink—one more won’t do any real damage. I’ll still be the most sober woman at the party. Plus, if I’m going to let a rule slide tonight, the two-drink limit is a better rule to break than the don’t-screw-a-hot-stranger-in-a-public-bathroom one.
One more drink, I decide, just to loosen me up a little bit. Not enough to be okay wearing a penis hat by any means, but maybe just enough to make flirty eyes with the hottest guy in the place.