Six
Sienna
The moment I reach him, I know I've made a mistake. Not because I regret it, but because this man is not safe.
This man—the one with the perfectly undone suit, the unreadable dark eyes, the lazy grip around a whiskey glass—is watching me like he already knows how this ends.
Like he's amused.
Like he's intrigued.
Like he’s already figured me out, and I'm nothing but prey.
Yet, I keep walking.
Normally, I'd never approach a man like this, but tonight, I need trouble. Tonight, safe feels suffocating.
So, I slide onto the barstool next to him, crossing my legs, trying to look more confident than I feel. My bare knee brushes lightly against his tailored pants, sending an electric shiver dancing down my spine. The faint scent of whiskey and expensive cologne surrounds me, intoxicating enough to make my pulse jump.
He doesn't look at me right away, but his fingers pause on his glass. His knuckles briefly whiten just enough for me to know he's more affected than he's letting on. A thrill goes through me. Maybe I'm not as hopeless at this as I thought.
“Whiskey,”
I muse aloud, letting my voice dip slightly, playing it cooler than I feel. “That tracks.”
A pause.
Finally, he turns toward me, just enough for me to catch the sharp cut of his jaw and the flicker of amusement in his eyes. God, those eyes. They're a storm trapped in glass—dark, restless, a shifting gray like thunderclouds waiting to break.
“Does it?”
His voice is low and smooth, the kind that makes you lean in without realizing you’re doing it.
I lift a brow, trying not to show how much his attention rattles me. “Mmhmm.”
He studies me, clearly waiting for me to elaborate.
I swirl the liquid in my glass, feeling the heat of alcohol already loosening my nerves, my confidence slowly building.
“It means you either have a lot on your mind,”
I say, holding his gaze, “or you want people to think you do.”
He exhales a quiet laugh, a small crack in his carefully controlled exterior. “And which one do you think it is?”
I tilt my head, pretending to consider before I deliberately let my eyes drag over him, taking in every sinful detail.
“I think you like looking like trouble.”
Okay. This is going well. I think. God, I hope he can’t tell I’m currently bluffing my way through this entire conversation.
His lips twitch slightly, but he doesn't give anything away.
“And you?”
he muses, voice just a little lazy. “You like looking like you can handle it?”
I arch a brow, take a sip of my drink, and force myself not to blush. “Oh, I don't just look like it.”
He watches me silently, lifting his glass toward mine. “That so?”
I tap my glass gently against his. “Mmhmm.”
“Good to know.”
The way he says it sends a fresh shiver straight down my spine.
He's measuring me again, recalculating. It makes my stomach tighten because I feel the exact moment the air shifts from playful flirtation to something else.
“So,”
he says, drawing the word out slowly, letting it linger between us, “tell me then.”
“Tell you what?”
“Why you're here. Why me?”
I hesitate. I should lie. But the way he's watching me makes me want to tell the truth.
So I do.
I exhale softly, waiting for my nerves to steady, but they stubbornly refuse. “I caught you looking at me.”
His smirk deepens, eyes glinting in amusement. He taps one finger against his glass before lifting it slowly to his lips, sipping, then murmurs, “I caught you looking back. I’ll ask again. Why are you really here?”
He glances toward the empty space where Harper and the guys had been sitting earlier. “Didn't you have your pick of men?”
Heat flushes my cheeks, but I hold his gaze.
He's right. I had safer, easier choices tonight. Options that wouldn't make my pulse pound quite so dangerously, men who wouldn't look at me like they already owned my thoughts.
I lift my chin. “I did,”
I admit quietly. “But I didn't want any of them.”
“You don't seem like the type to do something like this.”
“Like what?”
“Approach a stranger in a bar,”
he says. “Flirt for sport.”
I open my mouth to argue, but he smirks. “Don't get me wrong, you're good at it, but something tells me this isn't your usual Firday night.”
Damn it, he's right. Tonight feels entirely out of character.
“I'm trying something new,”
I say honestly because I have a feeling this guy can see right through any of my bullshit.
“How’s that going for you?”
I bite my lip, considering my reply before letting my smile turn just a little wicked. “Well, I guess that depends.”
“On what?”
I lift my empty glass, tapping the rim against his. “On whether or not you're going to buy me another drink.”
His gaze rakes over me before he lifts a finger, signaling the bartender.
Heat coils low in my stomach.
God, this is actually working.
As he turns back to me, his knee brushes mine again, a deliberate touch that ignites sparks across my skin. My breath catches.
Tomorrow, I’ll face judgmental relatives and an ex who moved on without me. Tomorrow, I'll go back to being sensible, safe, predictable Sienna.
But tonight, none of that matters. Tonight, I get to choose.
I'm allowed one night of recklessness, right? A meaningless hook-up purely because I want it, because I deserve to feel wanted, if only for a moment.
Maybe it’s because he’s everything my mother warned me about, and I'm about to do everything she told me not to.
Or maybe, just maybe, it’s because he’s completely opposite to the man who broke my heart.
I bite down gently on my lip, and his eyes drop to the movement, his grip visibly tightening around his glass.
Bingo.
The bartender sets our drinks down, and I take mine, savoring the slow burn of courage sliding down my throat.
“What's your name?”
I finally ask.
Thumb on his cheek, he glides a finger over his lips. Over and back. Over and back.
“Why?”
I lean closer, my voice dropping to something husky, something I don’t recognize. “Because I need something to moan later.”