Chapter One of He Loves Me Not
CHAPTER ONE OF HE LOVES ME NOT
Bianca
“The world could do with fewer men.” I shove my hand into a plastic bowl filled with peanuts, only for it to topple over. “Screw you.”
“Screw me?” A man’s voice growls next to me.
It growls. The type of deep and raw sound that enters your ear, but then it crawls down your body lighting up every nerve ending.
I turn because who wouldn’t want to see what this guy looks like?
The face outdoes the voice tenfold.
He has dark brown hair that’s too long on top to be corporate but stylish enough on the sides to be contemporary.
I look into brown eyes that are a shade lighter than a great espresso.
His nose looks like it was gifted to him courtesy of a Greek god, and his jawline is so sharp that other men must question their masculinity when they’re in his presence.
I may be exaggerating, but I’ve known a guy or two who would hide in a hole after seeing the man sitting on the barstool next to me.
The gray suit he’s wearing is next level, as is the silk tie that has thin lines of lilac thread crisscrossing through it.
“I wasn’t talking to you,” I toss back because I’m not single.
What a waste this encounter is going to be.
“I thought I heard an invitation.” He pops a dark brow. He evens that out with a smirk.
Full pink lips and a tongue that I get a hint of when he licks his lower lip only add to his whatever-the-hell-it-is . It trumps charisma by miles, and attractive isn’t even in the ballpark.
This man could charge money for women to sit and stare at him.
I raise a finger when the bartender approaches, because truth be told, this is not my first time in this questionable establishment.
I have to pick and choose where I show my face in this town.
Manhattan is vast, but my stepfather’s reach surpasses that.
I glance at the hands of the man sitting next to me. I tell myself it’s because I want to see what he’s holding. (A glass half-filled with top-shelf bourbon, from the looks of it.) But, size does matter when it comes to doughnuts and dicks.
If you’re going to indulge, satisfaction should be guaranteed.
The suit sitting next to me has large hands.
They are strikingly larger than my current boyfriend’s. Kieran’s hands are average. They do the job, or they used to.
Some say you can’t judge the size of a cock by the owner’s hands. I say you can. My research has proven it.
A glass with a little too much vodka and not enough cranberry juice is set just to the left of me. “Thanks, Rolly.”
Rolly knows what I like down to the two lime wedges he’s propped on the glass’s rim.
“I’ll add it to your tab, Miss Marks.”
Apparently, Rolly has never seen an episode of Dateline. Identifying information in a bar is a no-no. With a discreet shake of my head, I roll my eyes even though I doubt that Rolly will see it.
I’d estimate that the prescription for his eyeglasses dates back to the nineties. He tosses a kiss in my general direction, thrown from his palm because Rolly is a kind soul. He makes a mean drink too and strong. It’s very strong.
“Go ahead and put it on my tab.” The man next to me leans closer, and I get my first scent of him. I can’t tell if it’s cologne or just his skin, but it makes me think of his lips in places other than the rim of his glass.
There’s no harm in letting him buy me a drink, so I smile. Pushing my long brown hair over my shoulder, I look at him. “Thank you.”
He stares into my blue eyes as if I’m going to share my deepest secret with him. “You’re welcome, Miss Marks.”
Thanks a hell of a lot, Rolly.
“I’m Roman Hawthorne.” He extends a hand, and I get a glimpse of an obscenely expensive gold watch peeking out from beneath the sleeve of his suit jacket.
My stepdad would be jealous, which makes me think this man might be even richer than the Marks brood is.
I take his hand for a brief shake. “Miss Marks.”
He lets out a chuckle that vibrates through him. “Tit-for-tat, Miss Marks.”
My gaze drops to the front of the royal blue blouse I’m wearing. I’d make a comment about my breasts, but there is no need. Mr. Hawthorne has his eyes pinned on them. He’d be getting an eyeful in the form of a black lace bra if this blouse was sheer, but it’s not.
“A first name,” he says as though it’s a question.
I sip on the drink even though I want to down it in one large gulp. I haven’t forgotten why I’m here, although the five o-clock shadow on this guy makes me almost forget I have a boyfriend.
The last time Kieran went down on me, he had a beard.
That was weeks ago.
Lately, it’s been one minute of foreplay in the form of a swipe of his finger over my clit, three minutes of thrusting before Kieran comes, and ten minutes with my vibrator after I get back to my place.
“I have one,” I bounce back.
He laughs, and time in all its infinite wisdom stops. Even Rolly looks in our direction to see where the glorious sound is coming from.
I take another drink.
“Let’s start again,” he says through a lingering chuckle. “You said something about the world needing fewer men. What was that about?”
“That was about one John Smith.”
That is my boss’s name, but Roman can’t track me down based on that. That’s assuming that he’d want to track me down. For all I know, he’s in here drowning his sorrows because his girlfriend left him.
I laugh out loud at that.
What woman in her right mind would leave him?
Roman’s brows pinch together. “Was that a joke?”
“No,” I sigh. “My boss passed me over for a promotion today.”
“Bastard,” Roman snaps the word off his tongue.
I’d call John worse, and I have, but I did that on the trek here in the sweltering New York City heat.
I’m all cursed out, for now.
“He gave the job to one of his cronies.” I edge my manicured, pink-tipped nail along the rim of my glass. “If that’s what you call an old friend who has much less experience than me.”
“I call it favoritism.” Roman finishes his drink. “John Smith made a mistake.”
For someone who has no idea what I do for a living, I admire his commitment to taking my side.
“I think it’s time to look for a new job,” I say half-heartedly.
I’ve been working at Packton Properties for four years. The senior project manager’s job should have been mine. Once John’s BFF was put on staff, my chance for any advancement went up in smoke. You’d think that eighty-year-old men would be ready to hang up their hats and hit the retirement path, but not John and Jim.
“If you have a background in law, I’d consider offering you a position with my firm.”
That has to be the smoothest humble brag I’ve ever heard. I don’t take the bait because my only experience with the law was a warning for crossing against a light when I was seventeen. I’ve stayed on the straight and narrow for the past ten years.
I take another sip of my drink, waiting for Roman, the gorgeous but not modest attorney, to ask for my number. My ego hopes he will, even though I can’t share it because of Kieran.
I am many things, but I’m not a cheater.
He takes a look at his enviable watch. “It’s been an experience, Miss Marks. I hope the employment situation sorts itself out.”
“I’ll sort it out.” I catch his eye one last time. “Thank you again for the drink, Mr. Hawthorne.”
“Roman.” He taps his fingers on the top of the bar. “It’s Roman to you.”
He stands. All six-feet-two-inches of him are breathtaking.
I’ll never see him again after today, so I take one last, very long look at him.
“Until we meet again,” he says, buttoning his suit jacket. “Good day, Miss Marks.”
Taking a deep breath, I turn back to my drink and whisper, “You made it a very good day, Mr. Hawthorne.”
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