Chapter 4
Chapter Four
AIDAN
Was there another seat available at the opposite end of the bar when I arrived? There sure was. But I noticed the way the bartender was eyeing the cute girl currently sitting next to me, and the way she was completely oblivious to him.
It’s not in my nature to go for a woman when there’s competition. I’ll take the sure thing over the girl I’ve got to fight for any day. There are too many willing women in this world to waste my energy like that. But something told me that this one would be worth it.
“So what are you doing at the bar alone?” I ask her.
“I was meeting people here and their flight was cancelled. You?”
“Same. I heard some guy at the front desk say that any flight arriving after three today was cancelled because of the storm.”
She glances across the bar, where the wind is already bending the palm trees. “Think it will get much worse?”
“I mean, I wouldn’t want to land a plane in this. But it’s not going to destroy the hotel or anything.”
“Do you land many planes?” Her voice is teasing, and there’s something about the way she lifts her eyebrow, like she’s looking to call me out on my bullshit, that makes me want to know her better.
“Not many, no.”
“But some?”
“Occasionally.”
I have my pilot’s license, and I fly just enough to maintain it.
It was something I got because I had a fear of flying when I was younger, and my stepdad thought that if I flew a plane myself and understood how everything worked, I’d get over the fear.
I did it just to prove to myself that I could, and it worked.
Which is a good thing, because once I started playing hockey in college, I was on planes all the time and that hasn’t stopped since.
She lifts the Rum Swizzle that the bartender set beside her a few minutes ago, and pulls the straw between her lips.
They’re full and pouty in a way that has my gaze instantly focused on them.
She takes a sip, then lets her lips part so the straw falls against the side of the glass before she looks up, running her tongue along the seam between her lips, and saying, “Wow, that’s good. ”
Does she have any idea how fucking sexy she is? She’s not like the toned, practically plastic women who normally chase my teammates and me during the season. The ones who zoom in on you the minute you walk into a bar, giving you “take me home and fuck me” vibes.
No, this woman is soft. Her strawberry blonde hair is up in a clip, but loose tendrils fall on the sides of her face, and she keeps tucking them behind her ears.
She’s got a light smattering of freckles across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose, and her eyes are a bright blue.
She’s curvy and lush, and the V of her sundress highlights the crease of her cleavage.
But it’s her full lips, and the way they turn up at the corners when she talks, that have me mesmerized.
“What do you do when you’re not flying planes?” she asks, but it’s a question I’d like to avoid.
“I’ve been out of work for a while with an injury.”
She nods, and it’s clear that she’s curious but not going to push. I don’t ask her what she does for work.
“And do you have a name, my poor injured friend?” Her cheeks push up with a smile that lights up her whole face as she taunts me and her shoulders relax.
I love the way she smiles, the way her whole body changes when she does.
I want to see her do it more often. When I don’t respond right away, she says, “Or do I need to guess?”
“Guess my name?” My chuckle rumbles out of me as I lift my drink in a mock toast and say, “Go right ahead.”
She tilts her head to the side and chews on her straw before taking another sip of her drink. “Nicholas.”
“Why Nicholas?”
“I don’t know, you look like you could be Greek? Or maybe from somewhere else in Southern Europe. Nicholas feels like a catchall name that could work anywhere.”
My shoulders shake with silent laughter. “Sure, Nicholas works.”
“What about me?” she says, with a slow bat of her eyelashes. “What should my name be?”
Oh, this is a fun game she’s inviting me to play. No names means no strings, just how I like it.
I take in her creamy skin with a very light tan, and the softness of all her features. Somewhere under all that softness, I suspect there’s a toughness to her—not physically, but emotionally. I don’t know why, but I feel like she has more life experience than she lets on.
“Amy,” I say decisively.
“Why Amy?” Her eyebrows dip as she looks down at her drink.
I reach over and tilt her chin up so she’s looking at me. “I don’t know, it just felt right.”
With my knuckles bent under the point of her chin, my thumb strokes the smooth line of her jaw. I run the pad of my thumb over her lips as a promise of what’s to come. The way her breath hitches before her lips curve into a sly smile makes me think we have the whole night ahead of us.
“How old do you think I am?” she asks, later, in response to my question. Her eyebrows lift and she blinks at me, those dark lashes descending over her blue eyes.
The sensualness of her curves, the air of flirty self-confidence, and the success she’s already had in her career make me think she’s got to be older than she looks. “Well, with college and an MBA under your belt, not to mention owning your own company . . . My guess is at least thirty?”
She huffs out a small laugh and says, “Sure, thirty sounds good.”
It’s amazing how many times we’ve used that “sounds good” phrase over the course of the last hour, as we’ve chatted and created stories about each other that may or may not be true while eating dinner.
According to her, I’m a thirty-two-year-old dentist named Nicholas, and I live in New York City but my parents are originally from Greece and own a Greek restaurant in Brooklyn.
The scars on my left hand are from a freak accident with a dental tool, which kept me out of work for the past few months.
According to me, she’s a thirty-year-old from Chicago. I was originally going to go with a flight attendant, until she mentioned the accelerated online MBA she finished over a year ago. Now, I’m trying to work out her background.
“I think you grew up in the suburbs, and then after college you couldn’t wait to start your life in the city.”
With her elbow resting on the bar, her chin is propped up on her hand, but I don’t miss the small smile behind her curled fingers. She tilts her head slightly and says, “I do love the city.”
“I’m thinking you’re in project management. I could see you being very bossy,” I say with a wink.
Her tongue curls up as she runs it along her top lip. “I bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
It’s not something I normally enjoy, but with her, I bet it would be fun. “Maybe we should find out.”
Her lips part, but I’m left hanging there, waiting for her response, because the lights go out and the entire restaurant is bathed in darkness. The silence that descends in the room only accentuates the sound of the wind roaring outside.
“Hold on, folks,” the bartender, who long ago gave up his flirtatious endeavors, calls out. “We’ve got emergency floodlights.”
A moment later, the space is lit up with shockingly harsh white lights that have everyone squinting and using their hands to shield their eyes.
“Your servers will be around to have you sign off on your bills with your room numbers,” he calls out again, and then the chatter of the remaining diners left lingering late into the evening starts up again.
“Seems like they’ve done this before,” Amy says.
“I’m sure they have. I don’t think tropical storms and hurricanes hit Bermuda often, but I’m guessing they prepare for this.”
We finish our third round of drinks as we wait for the bartender to bring over the paper slips with our orders, and when we list our room numbers, she’s giggling as she says, “Of course we’re like three rooms away from each other.”
“Here,” I say, putting my hand on her lower back when she steps down from the barstool. “I’ll walk you back.”
She gives me a look that I can only describe as a smirk. “Walk me back to . . . ?”
I press my hand to her lower back, positioning myself on the outside to hopefully block some of the wind and rain, before we step outside. “That’s really up to you. I’m sure our rooms are both equally comfortable.”
Her chest and neck flush before she turns toward the door. We rush along the side of the building under the covered walkway that leads back to the hotel, trying to avoid the wind that’s blowing in sideways while also trying not to slip on the wet concrete.
By the time we make it into the lobby, we’re both drenched but laughing. From there, we head back out under another covered walkway lit by floodlights. All the rooms open to these outdoor walkways, which I’m sure is a great feature when there’s not a tropical storm bearing down on the island.
We head up the two flights of stairs which are thankfully encased inside brightly painted stucco walls, and then we’re out onto the third-floor hallway. My room comes up first.
“This is me,” I say, nodding toward my room. “Want to come in for a nightcap?”
“I think three drinks is enough for you, my lightweight dentist friend,” she says with a laugh, as she taps my breastbone with her finger. I understand perfectly. Three drinks is enough for her. She’s not drunk, but I get the sense that one more drink might send her into that territory.
I capture her hand in mine, holding it to my chest as I pull her closer. “How about just coming in, not for a drink, then?”
“Sounds perfect,” she says.