Prologue Remi #2
His head was down like he was staring at something in his hands, probably his phone, and I sucked in a fortifying breath and made my way to the seat to his right, so that I could hide in the corner until I felt a bit less like I wanted to run and lock myself in a bathroom stall.
I tried to edge around his arm without making contact, but my shirt brushed against his skin as I tucked myself into the empty seat.
He glanced up sharply, and my mouth went dry at the fierce look on his face.
“I’m sorry. I should have asked first. Is this seat taken?” I asked, nerves making my fingers tingle.
His frown deepened for a moment, but it didn’t change what I knew to be true.
He was beautiful—features hard and chiseled in the flashing lights of the club.
The sheer breadth of his body was intimidating, rounded biceps and curved shoulders, veins roping over his forearms and hands.
The air around us was thick, like standing outside as a storm rolled in, raising the hairs on my arms while I waited for him to speak.
It was dark in the corner where we sat, and with the pulsating lights behind us altering my perception, it was impossible to tell what color his hair or eyes were. Gray, maybe. Or blue?
God, how long had I been staring? Like I’d never seen a jawline like his before.
I had. I’d seen lots.
Okay, maybe not lots. But at least three.
“I’m not trying to hit on you,” I blurted out.
“I’m not even trying to make conversation with anyone.
I’d prefer not to, actually. You can sit here and not say a single word, for all I care, but I shouldn’t have assumed you were sitting alone.
” His eyes narrowed slightly, and with the suspicion there, let me tell you, it didn’t help stop the nervous rambling.
“I don’t even want to be here. My friend forced me, and I’m kind of in hell. ”
His brow furrowed. “No.”
I blinked. “No to which part? Because I promise, I don’t want to be here.”
There was a glass of beer in front of him, and for a moment, he looked down at it, spinning the glass in tiny circles with his giant man hands. They were massive. Everything about him was. Eventually, he lifted his head and pinned me with another unreadable look.
“No one is sitting there.”
I exhaled. “Okay, good.”
He arched an eyebrow. “Doesn’t mean I wanted company, though.”
My stomach dropped right down into my cute kitten heels. “Oh.” Then my gaze narrowed incrementally. “That doesn’t mean you get to claim the entire row just because you’re oversized.”
His brows shot up. “Oversized?” Slowly, he turned on the barstool, his legs spread wide, one brushing mine as he faced me with an elbow braced on the bar.
Being in his crosshairs made the air do that electric buzzing thing again, but this time it was the hair on the back of my neck.
“I’m quite sure I should be offended, Red. ”
I rolled my eyes. “Oh, come on, like that isn’t the most unoriginal nickname in the entire world. And you are.”
“What?” He was staring at my hair now, gaze lazily trailing down to my face and then landing on my mouth. I wet my lip, more of a nervous tic than anything else, and his mouth opened slightly, like he was going to speak and then thought otherwise.
“Oversized,” I repeated. “You’re . . . larger than average.”
“Average what?”
“Anyone. The average male is five feet, nine inches, and that’s how tall I am.”
He leaned back slightly, studying my legs, then dragging his gaze back up over my cleavage and to my face. “Are you?”
“Don’t try to unnerve me,” I said lightly. “It won’t work.”
He ignored that. “So you’re body-shaming me.”
“No. You were”—I waved my hand at his general person—“manspreading. Taking up more space than the average person would. I’m not saying you’re too anything. I’m sure your body is very . . . nice.”
“Very nice,” he repeated slowly.
As I said it, my eyes locked on the cut lines of his heavily muscled arms. It wasn’t just the muscles either—they were wrapped in ink, designs I couldn’t make out in the dim light of the bar. Who was I kidding? This man was a fucking specimen.
“Perfectly fine, I’m sure.”
My voice came out strangled, and that’s when I realized his lips were edged up in a slight smirk.
“Perfectly fine,” he echoed. He pulled the beer up to his mouth and took a long drag, the thick line of his throat moving as he swallowed.
What about that was so attractive? It was swallowing, for crying out loud.
But he had a very manly throat, his Adam’s apple a prominent wedge of cartilage in the middle, and damn it if that wasn’t really nice too.
The bartender approached. “What can I get for you?”
I hadn’t been to a bar in about eighty-seven years, and my drink of choice at home was when I transitioned from coffee to Diet Coke in the afternoons, so there was nothing to be done but panic-order.
Like when you’re at a nice restaurant and you get the chicken tenders because you’re overwhelmed by too many options.
“A lemon drop, please.”
His brows furrowed. “A lemon drop?”
“Do people not order those anymore?”
“Not usually, no.” He grinned, his eyes dipping briefly to my cleavage, then to my ring-free finger on my left hand. “Don’t get out much, I’m assuming.”
The bartender was cute. Very cute. And the guy next to me sat forward, taking up even more space, the outside of his arm coming dangerously close to my bra-free chest. “How about you make her the shot she asked for?”
Polite professionalism snapped into place at the quietly issued command. “Of course. One lemon drop, coming up.”
The bartender turned to make my order, and the guy next to me withdrew from my space, and I couldn’t help the scoff that escaped. “What was that?”
He took another drink of his beer. “Nothing. It’s not his job to give you shit about your order. It’s his job to make it.”
“I think you’re overreacting a bit.”
“Maybe,” he conceded, eyes still on the bartender as he twisted a bottle of vodka upside down, pouring with a flourish. “I have a tendency to do that on occasion.”
“The people pleaser and the hothead.” I sighed. “What a pair we make.”
He cut me a sideways look as the bartender slid the shot in my direction.
“Twenty-five dollars.”
My mouth fell open. “For a shot? That thing better do my laundry if it costs that much.”
The bartender didn’t miss a beat, his eyes lingering on mine before he answered. “Well, it’s made with—”
“Put it on my tab,” the man next to me said. “And go away.”
Instead of getting pissed, the bartender merely smirked. “You got it.”
My neck felt hot. “This is the strangest night of my life.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
He turned slightly and waited for me to bring the shot to my mouth. Instead of talking myself out of it, I knocked it back and waited for the alcohol’s burn.
Holy shit, no wonder it was twenty-five dollars. I stared at the empty shot glass as my companion let out an amused chuckle. “Good?”
“That was the best shot I’ve ever had in my life,” I said despondently.
“When’s the last time you had a shot?”
Math was hard when you’d drunk what I just drank. I pinched my eyes shut. “High school?”
He laughed. “Yeah, right.”
“I’m serious.” I ran a hand through my hair and tipped the shot glass back again to see if there was another drop or two remaining.
When there was nothing left, I pouted, setting it back down on the counter.
“He was right. I don’t get out much, and when this shot hits me, you’ll know why.
Or maybe you won’t, because you don’t want to be here, either, and you’ll leave now. ”
“You think so? I didn’t even say if you could sit here yet.”
My gaze caught his. “If there was another seat, I’d let you get drunk in peace, but I regret to inform you that this seat is now mine.”
He smirked. “I wouldn’t get drunk even if you weren’t here. I don’t drink and drive.”
Well, wasn’t that an attractive personality trait. He had a lot of those, apparently.
“I’m not getting drunk either,” I sighed. “Any more of those shots and I’ll just get tired and sad. No one wants a weepy girl at the bar.”
When he set his beer down, he leaned in, the space between us disappearing to almost nothing. Heart hammering against my ribs, I went perfectly still at the sudden nearness.
“Until about six minutes ago, I didn’t want to be here either.”
“No?”
“Would’ve given anything to leave.”
“Wh-why didn’t you?”
“I was invited to a birthday party, but I’m not sure they really want me here. I’m not really close to anyone I work with.”
“That’s too bad. I love my coworkers.”
He tilted his head, eyes locked on my mouth. “You’re probably nicer than me.”
“Oh, I’m sure of it.” I didn’t even know his name and I was flirting. Flirting in a bar, with my tits practically hanging out. Were they piping pheromones into this bar? My mind raced for a subject change, even though his eyes gleamed. “Too nice, if anything,” I rushed to say.
“Is that so?”
I glanced pointedly toward the dance floor. “I say yes to things like this just because I know it makes my friend happy.”
He hummed. “People pleaser?”
Why did that feel like such an accusation? People pleaser conjured an image of a doormat who twisted themselves in knots for the approval of other people, even if they were miserable. No one ever called you a people pleaser and meant it as a compliment.
That was someone who couldn’t say no. Who couldn’t stand up for themselves.
I liked to please the people in my life. Make them smile. Make their lives easier. And that was not the same thing.
“No. Not really. But I like doing things that make my people happy.”
“Your people.”
It was a bit of a leading statement, and sober Remi probably wouldn’t have picked it up, but this was Remi on two margaritas and the most expensive lemon drop in the world, so she felt like following the leading statements from the handsome man taking up too much space at the bar.