Page 6 of Perfect Martinis

“JK,” the bartender greets me. I did manage to give her my name last time, though I am shocked she remembers it.

“Forgive me, I never got your name,” I tell her as I sit at the bar.

“Moriah.”

Moriah. That’s the owner. Shit, she’s the owner?

Well.

My job just got a Hell of a lot more interesting.

“Is this your bar?” I ask, and she nods. “Why Seoul? Sorry, I don’t mean to be rude. I just … am curious about a lot of things.”

She smiles at me and brings me my perfect martini before pouring herself a shot of plum soju. “I studied here at university and fell in love with the city. And K-dramas.” Her cheeks tint pink, matching her lips now, and I wonder if her nipples are the same shade.

Focus, you twit, I scold myself.

We talk a little about Seoul, she tells me about Chicago, where I was twice on tour. I do love the pizza, and she says she can make it at home.

“Really? Is that an offer?” I ask, arching an eyebrow.

“Do you want it to be?” she retorts.

I wonder if she’s a good actress, or if she doesn’t recognize me from my idol days. She lived here while my group was still active.

“I’d like it, yeah,” I reply.

She grins. “We close at two.”

Chapter Four

Moriah

Am I totally insane to be flirting with this guy who looks like a model? Seriously, I don’t do this. Ever. And I thought I swore off men after the shit I went through in Chicago, but it seems like my libido is speaking over my common sense.

I mean, he’s stunning! Any woman would want him to be interested in them. Any man, too, or any gender in between. He’s got this gorgeous chiseled jaw, deep black eyes, styled black hair, and the sweetest smile I have ever seen. A Roman profile, which you don’t see often here in Korea, and I admit I checked out his ass one day as he walked away.

Man knows his way around a squat machine.

I can bet money he’s an ex-idol or ex-trainee. I don’t really go for K-pop, but even I can appreciate beauty when I see it.

When he returns as we close down, I ensure my staff can handle cleanup, triple check no one is in the gambling room, and then I approach him.

“I’m glad you came back.”

His smile is sweet, sincere. His eyes, however, are shrewd and full of mischief. “Oh, I still have to come, jagi. And so do you.”

That should have been a cheap, stupid line, but said in his low, sweet voice? Yeah. My whole body shivers. He looks like a man who knows how to please his partners, and I am more than ready to find out.

“Then let’s go. My place or yours?” he asks.

“I live upstairs,” I admit.

“Well, then, we’re in luck. Lead the way.”

I take his hand and led him upstairs, unlocking my door and letting us inside.

We barely make it to the bedroom before he pushes me against the wall.

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