Chapter 2 #2
I bet you don’t. My cheeks and the tips of my ears warm slightly. Is that…am I blushing? I don’t think I’ve blushed since I was twelve and discovered Lycra bodysuits while glued to the TV watching highlight reels of the US men’s Olympic ice-skating team.
Fighting the heat in my cheeks, I force myself to meet his eyes. “Ever had a sin cyn?”
The energy between us crackles like ice dropped into a freshly poured drink. He wets his plump lips, which does all kinds of yummy things to my insides.
“No, sounds fun, though,” he responds.
“It is. It’s a play on a boulevardier, but with scotch instead of bourbon and Cynar in place of the Campari.”
His lips upturn into a devilish smirk. “The only words in that sentence I understood were ‘play’ and ‘bourbon.’”
The warm lights from the backlit shelves behind the bar illuminate his strong features, giving him an almost sinister appearance in the most delicious way. Does he feel this too—this pull between us?
“Well, they’re the best words,” I tease with my own coy smile before I get to mixing his drink.
All this flirting and smirking might end up with me in trouble and not the kind I was worried about earlier.
I shouldn’t brush my suspicion off just because of a pair of enticing lips and smoldering romance-novel eyes.
Even with this mouthwatering tension, I should still be cautious.
I look over my shoulder at him. “So what brings you to Portland?”
“Work. I’m a rarities collector, and I’m tracking down a particularly interesting piece.”
Oh, well, that seems legit-ish. We have a few regular antiques dealers and art sourcers that come through often. It would make sense for his company to put him and his coworkers up here. My paranoia was definitely getting to me.
I hand him his drink, and he takes a tentative sip. “What do you think?” I ask.
“It’s good. I like it—still prefer an IPA. But you might have made an occasional cocktail drinker out of me.”
I flush with pride. Franky is swamped with orders, so I jump to his aid. Sad to cut the banter short, but I have a job to do and my goal is to make as much money this weekend as I can to fund my Portland exit.
As the mystery man sips his beverage, I can feel his gaze on me as I sling drinks for the increasingly drunk patrons.
Every now and then, we make eye contact.
I find myself hoping he’ll call me over, ask for another drink, strike up another conversation.
I didn’t even get to use my best move on him, the one where I lean slightly over the bar, giving a coquettish flash of my cleavage.
As soon as he finishes and I’m about to offer to make another recommendation, he lays down cash on the bar and stands. “It was nice chatting with you, Sunny. Maybe I’ll see you around sometime.”
I wish him luck on his travels and jump right back into the fray.
The night’s finally winding down when Carley traipses into the lounge and crooks her finger for me to meet her in the corner. I prepare for a cross-examination about how I know that eyeful of masculine perfection.
“So I’ve got a present for you,” she whispers. I give her a dubious look. “We have an order for a bottle of Dom Pérignon from the hot guy’s room. I could send one of the servers up with it, but I thought maybe you’d want to deliver it?” She waves the paper ticket in front of my face.
Oh, unexpected. I mean, going up to his room, even to deliver a drink, sounds dangerous.
Except…if he’s ordering a bottle of champagne, a very nice bottle of champagne, there’s a not so unlikely chance that he has a girl up there.
Why else would a self-proclaimed beer drinker be ordering the most expensive bottle of bubbles in the cellar?
But he wasn’t with anyone down here all night, and he was laying it on kind of thick.
I bet it is. I giggle to myself. Maybe the champagne is for me?
Maybe he did feel that pull between us and this is his attempt at a booty call?
I mean, a bottle of Dom is much better than a drunk text at two in the morning.
And I am no stranger to a booty call. If he invites me in, what would be the harm?
Eli and I aren’t exclusive. And if this man eye-fucks that good, I don’t think I can pass up the real thing.
“Alright, send the ticket through. I’ll take it.”
Next thing I know, I’m standing outside his suite door, staring at the brass number 623, with the bubbly in an ice bucket, glasses on a serving cart, and a smile on my lips.
I take a breath, knock, and announce room service.
After a moment, he opens the door, looking just as good as he did in the low lighting of the bar.
My eyes move up and up and up his muscular frame.
Even with my sensible work heels, he has to be well over a foot taller than me. Damn.
“Please, come in.” His eyes flash with a hint of excitement as he holds open the door.
I push the cart through the entryway and into the sitting area.
I stop dead in my tracks as I’m confronted with the stoic face of Mr. Macallan 25.
I peek back at the entrance to find the big man with his arms crossed, blocking my only exit. Fuck.