The guy came into the bar toward the end of the evening, and I summed him up in an instant: tall, dark and handsome, with a broad, lean build that couldn’t hide how ripped he was under his long-sleeved top and worn dark jeans. Eye color indeterminate from where I was, but big, and dark. Brown hair and a sensual mouth with a heavily stubbled jaw that screamed just got out of bed and couldn’t be bothered to hide it.
Cheekbones that could cut ice. I could almost imagine the spontaneous hyperproduction of female ovum his presence was sparking, and I could have sworn I heard Kings of Leon skip for a second on the sound system.
Some men oozed a silent sex appeal, like a force field that was naked to the eye but tangible to every other sense. I’m not talking about the cocky, arrogant guys who thought they were God’s gift to the women’s clits they invariably failed to find no matter how much poking and prodding or relentless sucking they did. And man, did that get sore after a while.
No, this was far more subtle, this was the type of guy who you just knew would get you off in a way that you’d only ever fantasized about, and even in some ways you hadn’t. And he knew this, too, evidenced by the quietly cocky confidence.
Damn. There went that betraying little pulse between my legs, joining in the Mexican wave of adulation as people followed his progress to the bar.
Hence the hushed reverent silence. And hence the sinking of my stomach, because I’d just sworn off men to focus on some me time and a brand-new career direction.
“Hey, Ash! What’s a guy gotta do to get a drink? I’m dyin’ over here!”
The stranger’s dark gaze had been making a leisurely appraisal of the bar and suddenly caught mine. Wham. It was the most bizarre thing. Almost as if an explosion had just happened, turning everything mute and muffled, like the first twenty minutes of Saving Private Ryan.
I couldn’t move. I was rooted to the spot by the darkest blue eyes I’d ever seen in my life. Navy. Long lashes that should have looked feminine, but didn’t.
“Yo! Earth to Ashling Sullivan. How about a bit of service?”
More than a little humiliated and annoyed to have been caught mesmerized like every other female within a mile radius, I broke the connection and went over to take some orders.
Not cool, Ash, not cool at all to notice someone so…noticeable. Thanks to my job as a film makeup artist, I’d worked with some of the hottest men in the world, so it wasn’t as if I’d never seen a gorgeous guy before.
I sucked in a deep breath. Kings of Leon were still playing— sex on fire —mockingly enough. Everyone was chattering again. Maybe it had been some kind of mad hallucination? But then I felt a prickle of awareness. I looked to my left along the bar and my skin sizzled.
Nope. He was real and he was still here. And looking at me. Even if it was just to get a drink. After all, I was on my own in the bar tonight and for the foreseeable future, thanks to a litany of minor disasters with the other staff.
I told myself he was probably gay, even though every feminine instinct I had screamed in protest at this. But the laws of dynamics in New York said that any half-decent guy was gay, or an asshole, or taken.
I couldn’t keep ignoring him. But as I went over to take the stranger’s order, I hated that I was so aware of him. Dammit, I wasn’t a fifteen-year-old virgin anymore! I was an independent twenty-six-year-old woman who’d had her fair share of sweaty, earth-pounding sex, so why was this pretty boy making my palms damp?
Because when I stood in front of him I realized that he wasn’t pretty at all. He was devastating. And unsmiling. Tense, almost wary.
I forced down my libido, which was jumping up and down like an overexcited dog dry-humping my leg. “Hey, what can I get you?”
“Whenever you’re ready, I’ll have a beer. Please.” His voice was deep, his tone dry.
Whenever you’re ready. And please almost as an afterthought. I only dimly registered that his accent wasn’t American because hackles were rising. I smiled sweetly and cocked my head. “Any beer in particular, sir?”
He glanced behind me and back. Slightly distracted. “Local is grand.”
My insides twisted. He was Irish. And there was something about an Irish accent that made me melt. This was getting ridiculous. Gorgeous and Irish. Who cared if he wasn’t a smiler?
I got a bottle and felt as self-conscious as I had when I was a teenager. All awkward limbs and burgeoning boobs and clumsy with everything.
When I put it in front of him, I said casually as I wiped the bar, “If you like Guinness, we have it on draft here.”
He arched a dark brow as he took a gulp of his beer, his Adam’s apple moving. Even that was sexy. He put the bottle down, and after another enigmatic glance somewhere behind me, he said coolly, “I’ll stick with the local brew.”
He managed to make it sound almost like an insult. As if any proper Irishman would even consider drinking the national drink outside Ireland.
Someone called me then, and I used the opportunity to escape, not liking how disappointed I was that he was living up to his brooding intensity, and borderline rude to boot.
One look at him and any resolutions to swear off men had been slinking away like weak traitors given the slightest chance to escape. But not anymore. He had danger written all over him. Just what I didn’t need.
He was welcome to the veritable quivering queue of pretty women lining up to give him some company. And sure enough, when I looked again some girl had perched on the empty stool beside him and was all but pushing her chest into his face. Not that he looked remotely impressed. The fact that that mollified me somewhat was not appreciated.
