Chapter One - Rachel #2
I can feel his presence behind me, big and dominating, like a storm swirling overhead. It’s not stifling or suffocating, almost alluring, like a juicy red apple that you can’t help but take a bite of, though you know deep down that it’s poisonous.
The bartender nods stiffly, but I hold up a hand before he can fetch the man’s order.
“Actually, I’d like a vodka martini.”
The bartender’s eyes flicker to the man behind me as if to ask permission to grant my request. I have no idea what he sees there, but he turns away without another look at me.
“Not a champagne girl?” The man’s honey-smooth voice sends pleasant shivers down my spine, so intense I can feel the tingles in each vertebra.
The heat radiating off him covers my back like a blanket, and I resist the urge to lean into it.
I’m not big on public displays of affection. My high school boyfriend broke up with me because I wouldn’t hold his hand in public. So, needless to say, the fact that touching a stranger—who I haven’t even laid eyes on yet—sounds alluring is not only disconcerting but wildly intriguing.
For the first time tonight, I’m interested in whatever games my mind plays. What can there possibly be about a stranger that I would find the least bit interesting?
I straighten my back, inspecting my nails like they’re fine jewels, just to give myself something to focus on.
“Just need something a bit stronger,” I answer.
“Rough night?”
“Nope,” I say, popping the P like I’m pulling a sucker out of my mouth. I wish I could say I was having a rough night, but the night itself has been great. It’s just my general bitterness toward life that’s ruining it.
“Celebrating then?”
This time, I do send a look over my shoulder, but only far enough to see my friends. Shay is deep in conversation with Donovan, so close that their noses appear to be touching, while Rosie and Kade are openly making out.
“Yeah. I guess I am,” I say as I turn back toward the bar.
“And what are you celebrating?”
I think carefully about that.
“I’m just here with friends,” I tell him. “They had their last day of classes today.”
“But you didn’t,” he states, intent on reading between the lines.
“No, I didn’t. I still have another year because I had to slow down my course plan to make time for my job.”
My mood dips as soon as I say the words, ruining any progress I’ve made on masking the frustration I harbor for the situation.
It’s not Shay or Rosie’s fault I can’t balance my finance courses and a part-time job at the pub.
Slowing my course load over another year hadn’t been a difficult choice to make a few months ago.
However, it feels impossible now that my roommates have packed up their part of the apartment we’ve shared for two years.
It’s not even the loss of a friendship that tears me apart—we all get along, but none of us were looking for more than someone to share the rent with—but having to watch everyone move on without me while I struggle to make ends meet.
Shay landed a job as an assistant event coordinator in New York City, which pays almost nothing but gets her foot in the door, which is why her parents don’t mind covering her living expenses. Then there’s Rosie, who was hired by the private school she graduated from to teach Language Arts.
I’m happy for them. I really am. They’ve both worked their asses off and deserve this, but I can’t hush the voice in the back of my mind that whispers I deserve it, too.
Thankfully, we’re interrupted when the bartender returns with our drinks, and I’m thankful to see my martini and not a glass of champagne.
I accept it with a thank you. “Could you put it on my tab?”
“That won’t be necessary,” the man behind me says, authority dripping from the words.
The bartender nods before moving to serve the other customers at the bar.
“I appreciate the offer, but I don’t need anyone buying my drinks.” I raise my hand to flag down the bartender, but a big hand reaches out to stop me.
His palm, warm and calloused, encases my entire hand with ease.
I wait for the discomfort that physical touch always brings me… but it doesn’t come.
There’s only my racing heart and the fascination with how my body and mind react to this faceless man.
His hand—the only part of his body I’ve seen—is dark-skinned, large, and capable.
Of what? I’m not sure yet.
He guides my hand back to the bar top with ease, and though I might’ve deemed the gesture demeaning any other time, it doesn’t feel the least bit disrespectful.
If anything, there’s something almost… attractive about how he holds on to me, like my hand is something to be cherished and protected.
“Please,” he says, and he must have stepped closer to me because I can feel his breath skate over the shell of my ear. “They’re on the house.”
When my hand is firmly pressed to the counter, I expect him to let go, but he doesn’t. His hand keeps its hold on mine, only shifting to hold it in an embrace.
“And why would they do that?” I ask, eyes never leaving our joined hands as I try to understand how my mind interprets this interaction.
But, for the first time tonight, it’s silent.
“There ought to be a few perks when you run the place,” he says absently, his finger rubbing slow circles on the back of my hand in a mesmerizing pattern.
With anyone else, I’d think they were putting on a show to impress me, but that’s not the case here. There’s no trace of boasting in his words, only the simple statement of fact.
“I suppose there ought,” I answer, reaching for my drink with my free hand and willing it not to shake as I lift it to my lips.
“What’s your name?” he asks, and the question makes me laugh, though the sound gets lost in the music and chattering voices around us. Still, I’m sure he can see it in the shake of my shoulders and feel it in the hand that still lingers over mine.
“What’s so funny?”
“My hair and my ass,” I answer with another round of laughter—an indication that maybe I’ve had a bit too much to drink.
“Excuse me?”
“My hair and my ass,” I repeat. “That’s all you’ve seen of me, and yet, here you are buying me drinks and coming on to me.”
I can feel him closing in from behind, asserting his dominance in a way that should make me want to run.
But it doesn’t.
His lips are so close to my ear when he speaks that his breath sends warm shivers through my body.
“On the contrary, I’ve had my eye on you since the second you walked into this club.
Your friends haven’t noticed how you drop your smile the second they look away, eye the exit like it’s a saving grace, and incessantly pop your knuckles, but I have.
I sent my friends to charm yours just to get you here alone.
So yes, I am coming on to you, but it’s not because of your hair and ass.
As for the drinks, like I said, those were on the house. ”
My body tenses at the confession, and though I briefly wonder if it’s possible to slide past him and get the hell away from here, I’m not entirely convinced I want that. He’s watched me all night and pulled strings like a puppet master to get me here alone.
My hand visibly shakes as I set the glass back on the bar and speak in as even a tone as I can manage. “You realize you’re admitting to being a stalker, right?”
“Why do I get the feeling that doesn’t bother you as much as it should?”
“Because I should stop after two drinks,” I say with a half-hearted shrug and lift my martini glass. “And this is lucky number four.”
My stomach flips at the sound of his low laughter. “I’ve got a rebel on my hands.”
Now it’s my turn to laugh. “I haven’t been a rebel a day in my life,” I admit.
It’s true. I’m a rule follower, and I always have been. I was the girl who was home by curfew, studied for every test, and never skipped school, even when all the other kids did. I don’t get a thrill out of being bad—just anxiety.
“Just for me, then,” he says, sounding awfully pleased with that fact. “My Rebel.”
My Rebel.
The two words echo in my head as heat courses through my veins. I have absolutely no idea how to respond, so I don’t. Instead, I give into temptation and turn to face the man who still gently strokes my hand.
Just as I suspected, I’m speechless.
He’s a broad man, given a wide birth from everyone around us, and the air surrounding him is even bigger, the kind of force others unconsciously submit to.
He has black hair cut short, barely showing the tight, natural curls that outline his rectangular-shaped head. His jaw is surrounded by neatly trimmed scruff, and his thick lips pull into a smile at my appraisal.
The black slacks fit like they were custom-made for him, and a light blue button-up stretches across his chest with its sleeves rolled over muscular forearms. A simple silver watch is secured around his wrist, the only accessory complimenting his attire, but he doesn’t need extravagant accessories.
Hell, he could be adorned in rags, and people would still part like the Red Sea for him.
There are a million reasons I should grab my friends and run out of here like a bat out of hell, but I don’t listen to a damn one as I pull my hand from under his, only to hold it out in front of me.
“Rachel.”
If I thought his features alone were disarming, his growing smile might very well have the power to rid the entire state of California of its inhibitions.
He accepts my handshake.
“Ryder,” he says, pulling my hand to his lips to place a slow kiss.
When his lips meet my skin, it elicits a burning that spreads through my entire body until it feels like he’s setting me on fire in the best possible way.
It’s a foreign reaction that scares me as much as it fascinates me. I’m so invested in deciphering my own reaction that I forget I’m holding my martini, so when I place that hand over my now-racing heart, the glass falls to the ground. It shatters to pieces, drawing attention from all around us.
Ryder unhurriedly pulls his lips from my hand and straightens to his full height, unbothered by the broken glass or the alcohol now covering his shoes.
I curse under my breath, turning as much as I can on the barstool, but I don’t have time to get the bartender’s attention because Ryder uses his hold on my hand to turn me back toward him.
“Allow me,” he says.
He lifts his hand, gesturing to the bartender who must give some sort of response because Ryder nods, but I don’t take my eyes off of him to be sure, and really, I don’t care much.
All I care about is figuring out what exactly it is about Ryder’s presence that calms my overactive mind and makes me respond in ways I never have before.
He’s not even my type.
I don’t have an extensive romantic history, but I’ve been known to go for the funny, lean, golden-retriever-energy kind of guy—a far cry from the man hovering over me now.
“May I?” he asks, holding out his other hand.
Surprising myself even more, my mind takes a backseat as my body nods its approval.
I reach out to take his other hand so he can help me down, but he moves it before I get the chance. I don’t realize his plan until it’s too late, and he’s cradling me in his arms bridal style.
“What are you doing?” I ask through a breathless laugh.
He gives me a look like carrying me was the most logical option, and I’m silly for even questioning it.
“Wouldn’t want to ruin your shoes.”
“It hardly would’ve ruined them.”
“Humor me, Rebel,” he whispers with a knowing smile.
And I do.
I can’t help that my friends are moving on. I can’t help that I have financial strains or an extended course plan. I can’t help that I spend most of my life fighting my own brain.
What I can do, however, is allow myself to enjoy one night of harmless fun with a handsome stranger.
What’s the worst thing that could happen?