Chapter Three
Walker
The hum of the bar, the clink of glasses, the sounds of someone’s twenty-first happening in a corner all compete for attention. But I’m tuned into her. Isla. Her hair is in a ponytail that adds an air of youthful innocence to her. Her pretty brown eyes dance with amusement as a patron talks with her. When she walks by, I can see the freckles scattered across the bridge of her nose.
She smells like mouthwatering fruit, and she’s fresh-faced with only a touch of makeup to draw attention to those doe eyes of hers… as if she needs help capturing attention. She has it. I’m pretty sure she has the attention of everyone in the place, men and women alike.
“Isn’t this the perfect spot for a date?” The woman beside me says, leaning into my space. I resist the urge to lean away. I should be listening to her, nodding along as I pretend to hang on every word of whatever story she’s telling.
But I’m focused on Isla.
Isla catches my stare from across the room, and heat bolts through my gut. Her lips curve into a polite smile, a gesture that tells me I’m caught and I’ve been staring a little too long. But I’m not embarrassed that I’ve been staring, and I have no intention to look away.
I hold her gaze, watching her cheeks go pink and the way she rubs the back of her neck with one hand as if my attention is making her flustered. Good. I want her flustered, hot, uncomfortable, even.
My date's continuous stream of chatter skims the edge of my attention. Something about a vacation, or a pet. It doesn't matter, the sound of her voice fades back into a distant, irritating buzz like a fly that won’t quit.
“Do you even like red wine? Like, like it like it?” Her shrill voice demands validation that I don’t want to give. Red wine, white wine, we could drink water for all I care - that’s not why I’m here.
“Sure,” I say, dismissing her with a single word. My attention is still locked on Isla. The air between us crackles with an electricity that tingles along my skin, and judging by the way she runs a hand up her arm, she feels the static charge, too.
But she’s not looking at me anymore. She’s behind the bar, smiling at patrons, pouring drinks with an easy grace, and talking with the other guy behind the bar. Her mundane tasks shouldn’t be captivating, yet they are. She is.
“Or we could try something new, maybe a cocktail?” My date’s suggestion is tentative, as if she’s aware I’ve completely checked out of our date.
“Whatever you want,” I say. What I want is obvious, and it’s not sitting beside me, begging for attention I’m just not interested in giving.It’s standing behind that bar, serving drinks, accepting a shot from a patron, downing the drink and smiling as the guy lets out a celebratory shout.
And I keep watching her, feeling the deep heat of desire churning within me that demands that I make her mine.
Isla's gaze meets mine, then skitters away as she leans in to speak with her fellow bartender. I can’t hear what she says, but my jaw clenches as he chuckles at her words. Her giggle joins his and my knuckles itch to greet his face.
It's ridiculous, this possessive twist of my gut over a woman I’ve spoken a handful of words to. But every amusing interaction they have feels like a personal attack.
“What do you think about that?” I’d almost forgotten about my date, and when I turn toward her, I see the expectant look on her face. She’s begging me to be there with her, present in the moment, but I’m not here for her. I’m here for Isla, and this woman is just a placeholder to keep my bed warm until I devise a plan to win over the woman I actually want.
Still, I should say something—anything—to put her at ease, but no words come out. Instead, I let out a distracted grunt.
Her eyebrows slowly rise, a move I’m surprised she can make, since I assumed she’d be botoxed to the max. My silence makes it obvious that I’m not at all invested in the conversation… or her. I'm already calculating the risk, wondering how far I can push before she breaks, and how far I can pull it back when all I want to do is watch Isla.
“Interesting,” I say finally, the blow-off response not fooling either of us.
Isla slides a glass across the bar to another man. What would she do if I walked up to her and asked for her number to take her out sometime?
A smart girl would tell me to get lost. A polite girl would tell me no thank you. And an interested girl would agree. My chest tightens wondering which she’d do.
“Is everything okay?” My date's voice is softer now, filled with something like concern, as if she thinks I’m sick or upset rather than disinterested in her.
“Yeah,” I say, my gaze never leaving Isla. “I’m fine.”
But I'm not fine—not even close. Isla has me all tangled up in knots that I don’t know how to untie. I want her, more than I’ve wanted anyone in a long time.
“Are you even listening to me?” My date’s voice is a frustrated whisper as she begins to wind up.
I blink, tearing my attention from Isla with effort, only to find my gaze sliding back to Isla as she laughs softly at something another customer says. My jaw aches from the constant clench and release of watching her.
“Sorry,” I say, even though I’m not at all apologetic.
The way Isla’s cheeks flush pale pink when our eyes meet sends a jolt through me. She looks away, but I don’t.
My date lets out a frustrated sigh, planting an elbow on the table and putting her chin in her hand, clicking the nails of her other hand in an impatient rhythm.
I can't bring myself to care. Especially not when another man takes a seat at the bar, leaning in like Isla’s the center of his universe. He orders a drink, and Isla gives him that smile— the one that’s somehow professional and disarming. She tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear, an innocent gesture that sends a wave of possessiveness through me.
I watch, the urge to pummel the guy rising every second, as they talk. The man's laughter rumbles, and my hands curl into fists.
I want to be the one making her smile. I also want to drag the guy off that barstool and show him what happens when he tries to elbow in on what I've suddenly decided is mine.
“You're unbelievable.” My date finally sounds angry, and shows some unexpected backbone. “Are you staring at that bartender?”
I turn back to face her, my expression tight, unreadable, silently reminding her who I am and what I’m capable of.
For a moment, there is nothing else—just the quiet warning in my eyes and the slow realization dawning in hers.
“Sorry,” she whispers after a few tense moments, her indignation crumbling under the weight of my stare. In her eyes, there's a flicker of something indefinable that could be fear, or some quiet understanding of the power imbalance between us. I don’t give a damn either way.
I give a sharp nod, accepting her apology without a word, but my mind is already miles away from her. It's back to memorizing every detail of Isla's face, her gestures, the soft sound of her voice. She's someone I want to possess, to have, to make mine. And I always get what I want, one way or another.
I lean back against the booth’s back, putting both arms on the back, a smirk on my face.
My date's apology seems to have reverted her to the annoying creature she’d been before, and she’s just an irritating buzz at the edge of my world once again.
The other bartender drops off our drinks, and I quickly down the scotch as my date fiddles with her fruity cocktail, still talking. I shift my focus away from the nuisance beside me and fix back on Isla as the burning hot liquor warms my insides.
There's a different kind of intoxication I'm craving tonight, and it’s not the kind found in the bottom of a bottle. No, I want to get drunk on Isla.
I watch her move, the way her fingers twist the top of a bottle and send my thoughts to a darker place. Those thoughts don’t ease as I study the way her lips move as she talks, the subtle dip of her collarbone as she leans forward on the bar to hear someone better.
“Do you want another one?” my date asks, her tone timid.
My jaw clenches at the interruption, but I don't bother looking her direction. “No,” I say, with a dismissive flick of my hand that looks like I’m telling her to go away. Maybe I am.
But my gaze doesn't waver from Isla. Her hand curves around the back of her neck and tugs as if stretching away some pain there. I can’t stop looking at the delicate curve of her neck and wondering how she’d react if I put my lips on the soft skin there.
I wonder if she’s unaware of the predatory interest she’s brought to life in me, or if she’s just good at ignoring the effect she has on men.
But every part of me needs to have her attention, to break through her polite exterior and see what lies beneath.
I watch as she leans in to hear a regular’s order. She lets out a genuine laugh and gives a playful gesture that has dark jealousy gnawing at my insides, a dark, possessive force that demands I claim her for my own. But I keep calm. I've built an empire by playing the long game, and I know better than to rush this.
“Enjoying the view?” My date’s sarcastic tone borders on disrespectful.
“Immensely,” I say, without sparing her a glance. Hasn’t she figured out that she’s just a distraction? Just a cover so that I’m not just the creepy guy staring at a girl across the bar? Women see men with women on their arms as safer - and I want Isla to think I’m safe. I’m not, but I want her to think I am.
But my date is merely a distraction—and a poor one at that. There's only one thing I want tonight, and she's not it.
My response seems to surprise her, and I assume she expected me to lie or make some excuse for my behavior. But I’m not ashamed, and I feel no need to dodge accountability. I want Isla, and I’m going to stop at nothing to have her.
As if sensing my attention, Isla looks up, meeting my gaze across the crowded room. Time seems to slow down, and the world around us fades into nothing. For a heartbeat, it feels like we're the only two people in the bar. Her cheeks flush, and I can tell she's caught off guard by the hunger she sees in my eyes.
She glances away, her face red and her breathing quick - judging by the fast rise and fall of her chest. I see a slight tremble in her hands and know that she feels it. The connection between us, this static charge that tickles every time we acknowledge one another.
I lean forward, hands clasped together on the table, a wolfish grin spreading across my face.
Oh, Isla ... She may not know it yet, but she’s already starting to fall into my trap - and I haven’t even made a plan yet.
But I won't rest until she’s mine—all mine.