CHAPTER THREE
Sutton
Twelve Hours Ago
Club Coquette is everything it advertises.
Swanky. High-end. Overwhelming. Ridiculously pretty people flit about from table to table in the VIP lounge area where Lizzy has set up court.
Music plays, its bass thumping a dull throb but not overwhelming, as the dance floor is in a separate area on the other side of the bar.
The lights are dim and the conversation a low hum as people flirt, mingle, and decompress after a hard day’s work.
And then there’s me. A little tipsy, simply enjoying myself as I stand at the far end of the bar, waiting for the bartender so I can order another drink.
My phone vibrates in my hand, and I glance down at it with a resigned sigh. I’m not sure if I want it to be Clint—so I know that at least I’ll be missed—or if I don’t want it to be as a means to prove that I was right; I mean nothing to him.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” a voice from my left says.
“You wouldn’t do what?” I reply in reflex without looking, my attention lifting from the text I haven’t read and over to him.
Him, as in the devastatingly handsome—devastating everything—man who is standing a few feet from me. I’m met with a pair of amber-colored eyes that hold amusement as he studies me. He has dark lashes, a strong jaw, and a mouth that I already know was made for sin.
I probably look like an idiot as I stare at him, mouth open and mute, while I take in his dark dress shirt and rolled-up shirtsleeves that showcase sexy forearms and strong hands.
My gaze finds its way back up his chest and broad shoulders, over his lips that break out into a half-cocked grin, to meet his eyes again. He lifts his eyebrows as if to ask me if I like what I see.
“I wouldn’t answer that text,” he finally responds when he knows he has my full attention.
“Why’s that?” I turn to face him and lean my hip against the edge of a barstool. He’s . . . beautiful for lack of a better word. Beautiful, when I’ve never considered a man to be beautiful before in my life.
What in the hell is he doing talking to me?
“Because any man who is texting you instead of being here by your side isn’t worth your time.”
“And let me guess, you are?”
He takes a sip from his drink but keeps those eyes on mine over the rim of his glass. “That remains to be seen now, doesn’t it?”
I snort and give a roll of my eyes. “No offense, but I think you’re barking up the wrong tree.
” I may say the words but hell if I can’t stop staring at the man.
I’m not sure if it’s the dim lights of the club or just him in general, but he gives off a vibe that makes me want to step closer and see if it’s real.
“Why’s that?”
“What’ll you have?” the bartender interrupts.
“Tom Collins, please,” I say and slide a ten-dollar bill across the bar top.
“Another Johnnie Walker Blue,” the man beside me says as he holds up his glass.
“Thank you, but I don’t need you to buy my drink.”
“I’m aware you don’t,” he says, pulling my money back and putting it in front of me as he replaces it with a twenty. “But oblige me.”
Oblige him? Like that’s a term you hear someone use every day.
“Thank you,” I murmur.
“So, Tom Collins.” There’s that grin of his. “Why is it that I’m barking up the wrong tree?”
“Well, Johnnie Walker, I assure you that whoever you’re looking for, I’m not her.”
His eyes take a long, languorous appraisal of my body, my skin heating under the intensity of his gaze before he gives the slightest nod. “That’s where we disagree, then.”
I give a half laugh and shake my head. “Glad you think so, but I’m sure you have women falling at your feet most days and—”
“True. I mean it’s a tough gig, but somebody has to do it, right?” He gives a half-cocked smirk that is so stunning it’s breathtaking.
For fuck’s sake, why is his arrogance so sexy? Why does his stoic expression and those words falling from his lips do things to my insides? But it’s the chuckle that he emits, the one that rumbles its way between the apex of my thighs, that has me giving a little shake of my shoulders.
“Cute, but rest assured, I don’t beg, and I’m far from interested.”
Who the hell is this girl right now?
“Is that a challenge?” he asks, those eyes of his freezing me in my place as a ghost of a smirk plays on his lips.
“It’s a fact.”
“Everyone begs. When it’s good enough . . . you beg.”
“Smooth. I bet you get all the girls with lines like that.”
Another chuckle. A deliberate sip of his whiskey that says I just might be right. A glance away and then back at me.
“Shh.” He leans in closer and lowers his voice. “I’m not one to kiss and tell.”
“Why me?” I ask.
“Why you, what?”
“Why are you buying me a drink instead of one of these other ladies?” I look at the various women lining the bar.
“Does it matter?”
“It matters.”
“Because of Betty Bradshaw.”
“Betty who?” I laugh.
“Betty Bradshaw. She broke my heart in the third grade when she dumped me after I bought her Twinkies instead of Ding Dongs.”
“A girl after my own heart,” I tease. “Everyone knows a Ding Dong is better.”
The look of disdain mixed with the grin he’s fighting from the ridiculousness of my words has my own smile widening.
Yes. I did just actually say Ding Dongs are better to a sexy man.
Johnnie clears his throat. “For the record, Betty broke my heart. Right there in the middle of the attendance line. She told me she preferred Jimmy Rodgers because he brought her Ding Dongs and not Twinkies.”
“And what, pray tell, does this have anything to do with why you offered to buy me a drink?”
“Absolutely nothing.” He flashes a boyish smile. “But I thought it might keep you here a little longer so it was worth a shot.”
“Ah, clever and handsome.”
“It’s a hard combination to beat.” He taps his glass against mine. “You should try it.”
All I can do is shake my head and smile into my drink. Is this flirting? Is he actually flirting with me?
It feels weird and exciting and yet, I just broke up with Clint hours ago. I should not be flirting. I should be . . .
“I’ll ask it again, Collins,” he murmurs just above the fray. “Why am I barking up the wrong tree?”
I study this man who makes me feel uncomfortable in all the best kinds of ways.
I know the last thing I need right now is to stand here and flirt with him, and the best way to prevent it is to be dead honest. A player like him will run at the first sight of what’s perceived to be an emotionally unstable woman.
“Because I just broke up with my boyfriend. Anything with me would be a rebound and we know how those go.”
He doesn’t flinch. “Messy. Complicated. Fleeting.” He smirks and gives a shrug as if he’d be up for the task. “Rebounds can be a good thing.”
Well, that just backfired.
And why am I glad that it did?
“Or they can be a disaster,” I counter.
“Not if you pick the right person to rebound with.”
“Let me guess, you like to play the part because of the fleeting portion of your answer? Less strings. No attachment.”
“That and the great sex.”
“Should I assume that you provide them with the great part of that sentence?”
“We’ll just say I’m a definite, contributing factor,” he says with zero shame.
“You sure think highly of yourself.”
“It’s not my fault women aren’t looked after properly. I mean, if a man can’t find his way around a woman’s body . . . is he even a man?”
I snort and roll my eyes.
“Are you telling me I’m wrong? Are you telling me that your ex cared about your needs as much as you did his? Was sex a duty and not something you looked forward to?”
Yes. I scream the word in my head as I think of Clint and how boring sex had gotten.
Lay down. Spread legs. Moan and fake it.
He groans and rolls over. And then how I’d consider if it was worth bothering to finish myself off after his breathing evened out and his soft snores filled the room. Mostly? It wasn’t.
Then again, maybe it had always been boring. Maybe I had loved him so much at the beginning that I overlooked the lackluster sex. And then as time progressed and animosity set in, I just participated rather than enjoyed it.
“Huh.” It’s the only thing he says but rest assured it sounds like, you know I’m right.
“How long were you with him?”
“Two years.”
“Two years with the same person? Christ.”
“Monogamy not your thing?”
“Didn’t say that.” He gives a half-hearted shrug and shifts on his feet.
“You didn’t have to. You implied it.”
“You make a lot of assumptions,” he murmurs. He places a finger on the condensation about to slide from my glass then lifts it to his mouth and licks it off.
My attention is drawn to his tongue. Hell, any woman with a pulse would be.
“Just as I’m sure you’ve made them about me.”
“And what assumptions do you think I’ve made about you?” He’s bumped from behind and takes a step closer to me. He smells of fresh air and the outdoors. It’s a subtle scent but one that owns my attention nonetheless.
Much like he does.
“Hmm. That I’m easy. That I’m so desperate for attention that I’m here in a bar looking for it any way I can find it.” I purse my lips and stare at him as I try to figure out what else to say. “That you sure as hell hope I like Starbucks so you can take me there in the morning.”
“Starbucks?” He coughs out a perplexed laugh. “You just lost me, Collins.”
“In case you forget my name since I’d probably become one among many of your one-night conquests, so the name part might get a bit foggy. It lets you save face. It’s better for you if the barista asks my name to put on my order than if you do.”
Johnnie stares at me with a dumbfounded expression. But his smile mesmerizes me and the amusement in his eyes has me wanting more of his attention.
“That’s actually quite brilliant.”
“Thank you.”
“So do you?” he asks.
“Do I what?”
“Like Starbucks?”