Chapter 2
When his words finally registered, I flinched. “What?”
His suggestion baffled me. He can’t mean he wants me to . . . join his entourage—?
Alaric lifted his eyes from the swirling liquid, our gazes colliding. None of his earlier amusement remained. “You’d definitely enjoy yourself. I’d make sure of it.”
My lips parted, yet I didn’t know what to say. At a loss, I grabbed the glass from him and downed the vodka, finishing it in a single, clinical gulp. It burned more than expected, and I made a small, involuntary hissing sound so I wouldn’t cough.
He smiled, close-lipped, eyes still persistently arresting mine. “Did you enjoy that?”
I set the glass down, determined to meet his gaze head-on as I rasped out, “No. But enjoyment isn’t the point.”
“Then what is the point, Alison?”
“It was free,” I said stupidly because the way he’d just said my name flustered my already-rioting insides.
Alaric exhaled a small, humorless laugh. “If something is free, you accept it?”
“If it has any value, then of course.” Wait. What are we even talking about right now? Vodka?
He leaned in, voice dropping. “I just offered you a free sample of a much better liquor and you turned me down.”
The intimacy of his tone sent another lovely shiver through my body, which was probably why I responded so quickly with, “I didn’t turn you down.”
He cocked his head, the corner of his mouth hitching. “Then you accept?”
“I haven’t decided yet,” I said, more honest than I meant to be. This was a joke, right? He’s joking? This had to be a joke.
But, no.
Alaric wasn’t inviting me to join his entourage. He was making a pass at me, and I knew it wasn’t a joke. Why would he joke? To toy with me? To what end? I was so far beneath his notice. Besides, he’d never been the type to be cruel.
No. I’m the cruel one. He’s the kind one. I squirmed in my seat.
Alaric entered the edge of my personal space, now more than close enough to erase any plausible deniability about the nature of this interaction or his intentions. “What can I do to encourage your acceptance? Should I remind you that you still owe me a few of your days?”
The memory of an image, an IOU, my teenage handwriting, scrawled on a scrap of paper flashed before my mind’s eye.
I gaped at him, shocked he’d remembered something that happened between us from so long ago, but forced myself to choke out, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you do. I let you borrow my calculus notes our senior year and you still owe me four days and five nights of your time.”
What?! “It was three days and three nights—”
He lifted a finger between us. “Ah-ha. You do remember.”
Wrestling my eyes from his, I stared at my glass and did my best to shrug off the unintended admission. “Fine. I do remember. Don’t tell me you still have that IOU?”
He waited until I looked at him again before responding.
“Of course. It’s my most prized possession.
I keep it in my safe on a velvet pillow.
Sometimes, I take it out to look at it, but only on special occasions.
Spend a night with me at my place outside of Alenbach and I’ll show it to you.
” His eyes were all twinkly, and his voice had dropped again with the intimate invitation.
I couldn’t decide whether he was telling the truth or if he was merely teasing me.
“So, what do you say? Come upstairs with me. I know you want to try some of what I can offer.” He’d slathered his tone in suggestiveness, but it was inexplicably seductive rather than cheesy, and my stomach flip-flopped with longing.
Oh my God. Am I considering this?
I was considering this. And if I was seriously considering this, there were a few logistics that required additional clarity. “Do I have to share the drink with other people?”
He blinked. “Pardon? Other people?” My question had obviously surprised him.
“Yes. Who—who else will I be sharing this bottle with? What I mean is, is there someone else, maybe in a different city, who might feel sad that you’re sharing bottles in Chicago?
Because I don’t like sharing other people’s, uh, liquor.
” I wasn’t going to step foot in his hotel room if he had a girlfriend, nor would I continue this conversation.
“Oh, and, just so you know, if there’s a third person you want to share the bottle with tonight, I’m not interested in that either.
” The idea of a three-way stressed me out.
So many fingers, so many holes, too many feelings.
Alaric’s eyes pinned me for an exceedingly long moment and a ripple of something like disbelief or irritation passed behind them.
“Alison—” he began darkly, but then stopped himself.
I watched his chest rise and fall with a breath before he continued, “It’s just me.
Just me and you. There is no one else for me but you.
Is that clear enough?” Alaric tipped his head subtly to one side, as though examining me from a new angle as he added softly, “For my part, I’d say tonight is long overdue. ”
“Wait. Earlier, you were really buying that whole bottle just for yourself? Not for your entourage?” I whispered, trying to keep up.
He nodded, his features completely sober and achingly earnest. “Just me. And, I hoped, you.”
I stared at him, my heart suddenly in my throat. I couldn’t remember the last time my heart had been in my throat. In fact, I couldn’t remember the last time I thought about my heart.
His hand plucked mine from the bar, his fingers enveloping mine. I watched, transfixed as he brought them to his lips for a gentle, grazing kiss. “Say yes,” he whispered, and it sounded like a plea.
This was ridiculous.
My eyes darted between his and where he held my hand captive, searching for . . . something. Never in a million years would I have ever imagined anything like this scenario, which is probably why I blurted, “Alaric Weston, are you really trying to hit on me right now?”
I had to ask to be sure, right? This was too bizarre.
He gave me a slow nod, squeezing my fingers. “The last name is Jordan, and yes.”
“Since when?” I blurted.
He tilted his head, mock philosophical, his lips pressing together, working to fight a smile. “Since when did I change my last name? Or since when have I been trying to hit on you?”
I’d known for a while that he’d changed his last name sometime before graduating from college. Even so, I said, “Both.”
He looked up at the ceiling, still battling that smile. “I changed my name when I turned eighteen, and I’ve been trying to get you to date me since . . . I guess since puberty.”
I barked a laugh, so uninhibited and unexpected it startled me.
It must’ve startled him too because he let lose the grin he’d been trying to suppress. “I can’t believe you just laughed. I can’t remember the last time I heard you laugh. Do it again.”
My head was all over the place, spinning. “We haven’t spoken in ages. Of course you haven’t heard me laugh.” I glanced around the bar area, checking for bystanders or witnesses.
The last thing I wanted or needed was to be linked to Alaric Jordan. If I was going to do this, it would be a one-time, one-hundred-percent selfish, wish-fulfillment thing, and I didn’t want any witnesses when we left the bar together tonight.
“Because your laugh sounded rusty,” he said, but then quickly added, “But it was also extremely sexy.”
Ugh. He’s so charming. And his eyes are so—
I looked away, blinking hard. Am I doing this? I also couldn’t remember the last time I did anything frivolous, just because it might be fun, or feel good. Certainly, it would be an impractical use of my time and energy. But that wasn’t my main concern right now.
What if it wasn’t fun? What if it didn’t feel good? Then it would be a negative use of my time and energy, not just impractical. What if Alaric, like virtually everyone else I’d invested time and energy in thus far, turned out to be a disappointment?
“What am I even doing?” I asked no one, not meaning to speak the question out loud.
Even so, Alaric answered it. “Flirting with me. Hopefully, this will be the first of infinite similar occasions.”
I chanced another peek at him, fully intending to vehemently deny his statement, but the look on his face—open, hopeful, and hungry—fascinated me.
“I am not flirting with you.” My denial arrived weak.
He grinned again, using his grip on my hand to tug me closer. “Why not? I’m flirting with you.”
Heat crawled up my neck for the second time since he’d sat down and a traitorous little whisper of a thought echoed in the back of my head from someplace long buried.
But what if Alaric doesn’t disappoint you? What if it does feel good? What if being with him is fun?
Perhaps sensing my wavering resolve, Alaric leaned all the way in and whispered against my ear, “I doubt you’ll be surprised to know, I’ve thought about you a lot over the years.
A lot. Haven’t you ever thought about me?
Wondered about me?” I sensed his body shift, move closer, his legs now bracketing mine as he continued, “We can go slow or fast, you set the pace. Just . . . let me take you out. At least once. We can go anywhere. I’ll take you anywhere you want to go. ”
Before I could think of a response to Alaric’s latest verbal assault or a way to delay what now felt inevitable, someone cleared their throat.
Alaric’s sigh sounded frustrated as he leaned back and turned his face away. It took me a moment to realize, but the bartender had arrived with the bourbon Alaric had ordered, bundled in a black bag, and had placed it carefully on the bar in front of us.
“Sir, your bottle is on the house, of course. And I apologize for not recognizing you earlier,” he said, and then backed away, his demeanor apologetic. Almost reverential.