Total pages in book: 171
Estimated words: 162947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 543(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 162947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 543(@300wpm)
“How do you feel about a woman who isn’t interested,” I complain, turning back to my glass.
“I haven’t met one of those yet.”
“Right.” My reflection in the mirror behind the bar pretty much says it all as I lift my glass and take a sip. Maybe this is how alcoholism starts. With men, I mean.
“You don’t believe me? You’ve barely taken a glance at what’s on offer.” Out of the corner of my vision, the stranger makes an expansive gesture, one I’ve no desire to indulge him in. Maybe if I just ignore him, he’ll go peddle his schtick elsewhere.
“What’s your name, gorgeous?”
On second thought, maybe I should just tell him to fuck off.
“Her name is none of your business.”
A hot thrill runs through me. I know that voice and that tone. I remember what it feels like pressed to my skin in the darkness. I glance at the mirror in front, wondering if I’m imagining things when I find myself staring, just staring at him.
Roman’s hand twists the stool in the opposite direction. “Off you fuck,” he instructs my companion before he can get another word in. “Looks like you’ve tormented my wife enough for one night.”
“Well, you should’ve said the seat was taken,” the guy mutters, sliding from it.
“I asked her to keep my seat warm,” he calls after him. “She chose a big enough arse to do the job.”
I splutter laughter I can’t contain. Though I feel like I should have some pithy response as Roman sits in the recently vacated seat, I can do nothing but wipe a tear that has gathered in the corner of my eye. I have no idea how he’s here or how he found me. I just know I’m glad that he has.
“Fuckin’ arsehole,” Roman mutters, rolling the annoyance from his shoulders. I realise he’s wearing a suit. Roman, the Las Vegas version. Midnight blue, the fine fabric clings to him like a second skin. Silver cufflinks peek from his sleeves, and as he sits back, the buckle from his belt winks in the light. My eyes drink their fill, though I keep my lips firmly sealed against the madness brewing inside. Effusive words, apologies, demands that he help me make sense of this, please.
“You want to know how I found you, right?” he asks, his gaze slicing my way. I nod, still not trusting myself. “Would you believe I just wandered into the place by chance? Maybe I was looking for a toilet, given the water is on the fritz.”
I press my fingers to my lips to stifle a watery laugh. “It isn’t.” I give a quick shake of my head, my reply equally watery. “I turned it back on after your stunt this afternoon.” I’d only turned it off in a fit of pique. Desperation, maybe.
“The sight of my nakedness was that bad? Wait.” Tipping to the right, he angles his gaze around me. “You’re not packing, are you?”
“What?”
“I heard threats of a gun this afternoon.”
“No, no gun. I couldn’t trust myself with one around you.” Even if what I really needed this afternoon was a confetti cannon because a naked Roman is cause for celebration any day of the week. It’s easy to seem annoyed around him, usually because I am. It’s so hard not to be envious of someone who acts as he pleases, who doesn’t give two fucks for what anyone else thinks.
“I have that effect on people.” The anticipated grin or mischievous wink doesn’t materialise, the statement delivered with a flatness I haven’t come to expect from him. Though, not a moment later, he reaches for my wine glass without so much as a blink. “Is it any good?” The glass in his hand pauses on the way to his lips.
“It’s okay.”
He brings the glass the rest of the way and I tell myself I won’t watch as his lips part, won’t moisten my own lips as the cool of the glass presses to his. Liar. His throat moves with his swallow, my insides reacting with an instinctive kick of want. He has such a strong throat. I know how he tastes in that delectable hollow, and the sounds he makes when you press your teeth just—
As the glass meets the bar once more, I give myself an internal shake.
“You’re right. It’s passable,” he says.
“I don’t always drink terrible wine.” I glance away, unsure what to expect or what to say when Roman summons the bartender with a quick jerk of his chin. He asks a few questions, ultimately ordering the same. Ice clinks in nearby glasses, the conversation around us a low, pleasant hum. Yet inside, my heart thunders and my stomach aches. The bartender half fills Roman’s glass with a flourish, shooting me a quick wink as he sets it down in front of him.