Chapter 2 #3
“A little.” I’d only had a glass of wine with my friends and the two drinks over as many hours, but I was feeling deliciously buzzed.
Food was probably a good idea. “But it’s late.
Isn’t the kitchen closed already?” Bars in New Orleans took last call to a new level, but this far off the Quarter and out of peak tourist season meant most places closed at midnight and the kitchens a couple of hours earlier.
He hadn’t made last call yet, but we had to be close.
“I’ve got an in with the chef. Savory, sweet, or both?” He watched me like he was trying to figure out a puzzle.
The intensity of his gaze should have been unnerving, but with the veneer of attraction coloring everything, it seemed compelling instead. I couldn’t help but wonder what it would feel like to have his concentration turned to figuring out something other than my food and beverage choices.
“Savory. Preferably a little extra salty.” The olives made the herbal notes of the gin taste even better. I imagined that would extend to other foods, and I was curious to test my hypothesis.
“I know just the thing. Give me a minute.” Ford disappeared through a door off to the side of the bar, leaving me to stare into the antique pockmarked silver of the mirror behind the bar and contemplate my life choices.
If I hung around until closing like some kind of groupie, the what are you doing after you get off work question kind of asked itself.
It meant risking rejection twice in one night, but no guts, no glory.
I didn’t think he’d say no. I didn’t know what made me so sure.
Maybe the way he’d watched me while the finance guy chatted me up.
Maybe the attention he’d given me all night.
The reason didn’t matter as long as my night ended with a no-strings-attached orgasm.
Ford returned a few minutes later and set a plate of focaccia in front of me. It was flecked with rosemary and topped with slices of fresh fig and chunks of slightly melted blue cheese.
“I’ll be right back, Charlotte.”
I loved the way he said my name. His accent stretched out the syllables in a way that made it feel like I was a delicious mouthful, and he had all the time in the world.
He crossed the room to the only other couple left in the bar and let them know it was last call.
I heard the man ask for the check and Ford returned behind the bar long enough to grab a folio, presumably with the couple’s bill.
He ran the credit card, and in a moment he was standing across from me, staring at the uneaten focaccia.
“Not to your taste, cher?” He looked like he knew the answer to the question better than I did.
“I was waiting for you.” If I was going to play take me home groupie, I needed to step up my game.
Holding his gaze, I picked up a piece of the warm bread and took a bite.
I didn’t have to feign my reaction. The warm, yeasty bread added to the slightly sweet taste of the figs and the bite of the melted blue cheese was a brilliant combination.
I let out a groan that had nothing to do with seduction and everything to do with pleasure.
“Try it with the gin,” he said, biting into a piece of the focaccia, his gaze never leaving my face.
I did as I was told; not because I was particularly good at following directions—because he’d been right about everything else that night. As soon as the gin hit my palate, the juniper combined with the rosemary in the focaccia to make the perfect taste.
“You win,” I said, shaking my head in appreciation and disbelief. It wasn’t often I had a chance to be surprised by someone. Not in a good way, anyway. “I didn’t know it when I sat down here, but that is exactly what I wanted.”
“Brilliant.” The smile transformed his face.
He’d looked wicked before, kind of a sexy pirate turned conductor, but there was so much unabashed pleasure in his smile, I half expected him to glow.
It wasn’t lost on me that his pleasure was in guessing what I wanted and watching me enjoy it.
I didn’t habitually pick up bartenders, or anyone else for that matter.
Most of the men I spent time with were professional men who had as much reason to be discreet as I did and the kind of careers that made romantic entanglements undesirable.
The real estate guy I occasionally fucked’s interest didn’t extend beyond the time he was inside me.
My interest in him faded with the aftershocks of my orgasm.
It wasn’t hearts and roses, but it was a system that worked for me.
Anyone else I took to my bed fell into a similar pattern.
I wasn’t sure about Ford. Nothing about him seemed flash and done, but I didn’t have a reason to think he’d get attached either.
And it wasn’t like we moved in similar circles.
Worst case, I’d have to find another bar to meet my friends, not exactly a hardship in a city with bars on every corner.
Although none with cocktails as good as the one Ford made.
Regardless of the things I wasn’t sure about, I was sure I wanted to know what it was like to have the sexy, too perceptive man’s attention turned to our mutual naked, back bowing, get inside me pleasure.
I wanted that a lot. Enough to make my next question worth the risk.
“What are you doing after you get off tonight?” I finished the last of my drink and watched as his smile grew wider, competing with the gin to warm the center of my chest.
“Whatever you’d like me to, cher.” His words were the exact right kind of cocky combined with a Princess Bride kind of desire to please. It was my turn to smile.
“Perfect,” I said, sliding my credit card across the bar. “I should close out my tab.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ve got it.” He rested his fingers on the back of my hand in the barest caress and slid the card back to me.
“I can’t let you do that.”
He arched an eyebrow at me.
“Of course you can. It’s my pleasure,” he said, his wicked grin firmly back in place. “Would you like to come back to my home, cher, or would you prefer we go to yours?”