Chapter 11
Eleven
Louise
Zach takes the bottle out of my hand, his large, rough fingers curling over mine before I let go. Admittedly, I am more than a little buzzed, the tequila heating my throat and my cheeks.
Or maybe it’s the heat in this man’s eyes that’s making me warm.
Nope, definitely the tequila, I think as I sway slightly. Whoops.
But Zach is responsible for the heat that’s spreading through my belly, and lower.
I watch, transfixed, as he lifts the bottle of liquor to his own mouth, staring at the way his lips pillow the rim of the glass bottle, how his throat works as he swallows…
We’re standing entirely too close to be appropriate, maybe a foot separating us. He smells amazing from this close. Like cedar and citrus and… and smoke. It’s earthy and ultra masculine and I love it.
His mustache and close-cropped beard are what my every fantasy is made of. I’m not at all ashamed to admit that I’ve done a lot of daydreaming about that mouth and the ‘stache that covers that upper lip.
He doesn’t even bat an eye as he swallows down the alcohol and lowers the bottle from his lips, handing it back to me.
Again, our fingers graze, for far too long to be accidental this time.
I can’t tear my eyes off of his. And all I want is for him to lean down and kiss me.
Or I might just throw my arms around those big, broad shoulders and do it myself—
“Louise,” he breathes, his voice lower, far more husky than it was before, the deep timbre of it hitting me low in the belly. I shiver. “You can’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?” I ask on a whisper, swallowing hard.
“Like you want things from me that I can’t give you, Princess,” he breathes back, that blue gaze bouncing back and forth between mine and my mouth. “I can’t do whatever it is that’s running through that pretty little head of yours.”
The alcohol in my system has effectively turned off my give-a-shit—because, he thinks I’m pretty?—and I whisper, “Why’s that, Zach?”
Taking the bottle from my hand again instead of answering right away, he lifts it and takes a larger swallow this time. He sets it down on the counter next to us, the glass thudding dully on the countertop. Then he steps back, putting several feet of space between us.
He sighs, staring at me. “Because I’m technically still married, Lou. My divorce isn’t final, and a fling with someone as young and sexy as you would derail everything I’ve been fighting like hell for over the last year. That’s why.”
My stomach does this godawful flipflop in my middle that feels an awful lot like butterflies dive bombing to their demise. My chest tightens painfully until I can’t breathe. Well, fuck me.
He backs away several more steps, then notches his chin at the microwave when it beeps a reminder at me. “Eat your dinner, Louise.”