Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 114011 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 570(@200wpm)___ 456(@250wpm)___ 380(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114011 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 570(@200wpm)___ 456(@250wpm)___ 380(@300wpm)
I’m lifting my glass to take another sip of sugar when a shoulder brushes against mine. I’m two seconds from turning and giving someone a warning . . . but stop.
My body stills as a set of large, calloused hands presses against the laminate countertop next to me.
Thick, muscled wrists attach to forearms the size of my biceps. The space around me is impregnated with a very heady, very masculine vibe.
A bubble of curiosity blooms in my stomach. The intrigue grows as a rich, balmy scent licks at my senses. It’s the kind of cologne I love—the type that makes the person smelling it feel better, more confident, more attractive by proxy.
That is not a harbinger of good things, though. I know from experience.
I ignore the warning bells dinging in my head like the seasoned expert I am and twist to the side . . . and nearly fall off my stool.
Holy. Man. Candy.
His hair—thick and wild, lying to the side in an errant wave—is the color of tobacco. It’s a stark juxtaposition to the chips of sapphire sparkling in his eyes. A sharp jaw is dusted with more than a day’s worth of stubble, finishing the glorious package with a sinful edge.
“Hey,” he says, his voice smooth and inviting.
“I’m sorry,” I say, finding my voice. “Do I know you?”
He grins. “Not yet.”
Damn it. My insides tighten, and I squirm in my seat.
“That’s actually why I sat down,” he says. “I was hoping that you’d give me your number.”
What?
He laughs at the look on my face. The sound is warm and effortless—the audible version of his cologne.
“And why would I give you my number?” Because you’re gorgeous. “I don’t even know your name.”
“That’s an easy fix.”
His smile blurs the chaos of the restaurant bustling around us. It’s as if it’s just us in the room, and he doesn’t notice anything but me.
“Knowing your name is not a good enough reason to give you my number,” I say, lifting a brow.
“What if I told you that my buddy sitting at the round table by the window bet me a hundred dollars that you wouldn’t give it to me?”
“I’d say one of two things. Either this is a big joke, and I look like a sucker in my dirty jeans and old Florida State sweatshirt,” I say, remembering that I barely finger combed my hair this morning before tossing it up on my head, “or he knew that you’d say that and was trying to toss me a red flag so I’d blow you off.”
He grins.
“And that was not an innuendo,” I say, pointing a finger in his direction.
His grin turns into a chuckle. I find myself smiling right back at him.
“This isn’t a joke,” he says.
“So then it’s a red flag.” I narrow my eyes playfully. “But what kind of a red flag? Hmm. Maybe you’re a mass murderer as your side gig. You could be a Dexter, for all I know.”
He laughs. “Nope. I haven’t killed anyone.”
“Maybe you don’t like puppies?”
His shoulders tremble as he chuckles again. I can’t help but notice how broad they are.
“I love puppies,” he says. “I’ll be honest—not a huge kitten guy. But puppies are awesome.”
I lean back and study him. “Then are you the guy that doesn’t clear the remaining time off the microwave? It must be that.”
His chuckle turns into a full-blown laugh. “That’s it—you got me. I open the door with a few seconds left and just leave it.”
“I’d almost prefer it if you were a mass murderer.” A grin kisses my lips. “But I suppose it’s better for mankind this way.”
Val comes by and asks him if he wants anything else. Their interaction is breezy. His charm cuts through his presence and puts Val at ease. She’s normally a tougher nut to crack.
But I realize something else—he’s put me at ease too.
“Do you want to order lunch?” Val asks me. “Or did you just come by to say hello?”
My stomach growls, but nothing sounds good but the sold-out lunch special. “I’m good.”
Val takes a quick look at the guy before sliding her gaze back to me. “I think you are.” She winks before strolling toward the kitchen.
“What did you say your name was?” he asks after Val walks away.
“I didn’t.”
He rests against the counter with his body angled toward mine. A black and gold baseball cap is pulled low on his forehead. “Well, my name is Colson Beck. You can call me Cole.”
I study him for a moment. Besides being ridiculously handsome and delightfully alluring, he also seems . . . nice.
It’s just a little banter. One conversation. What can it hurt?
“I’m Palmer Clark. You can call me Palmer.”
He smiles. “Are you from around here?”
I lean against the bar and angle my body toward his, mimicking his posture.
“Yes,” I say. “And obviously you are not.”