Page 5 of Hungry Hearts

“Seriously?” She laughs.

“What’s not to love? Tramp is the ultimate bad boy stud who gets the princess over a plate of food. As a romance movie lover, it should be at the top of your list as well.”

“I haven’t watched it since I was a kid. The Disney movies I watch now areFrozen,Moana, andTangled.” Her eyes grow wide in shock as if she didn’t want to reveal that to me. She lifts her glass to her lips and takes a sip.

Interesting. She drinks when she’s nervous or when she says something she didn’t intend to. What is this gorgeous woman hiding from? She doesn’t wear any jewelry except small diamond studs in her ears.

I’ve never bought jewelry for a woman before, so I have no idea if they’re real or fake. Makes no difference to me, but real could mean they were a gift from a man. I don’t play any part in love triangles. I mean, I won’t turn down wet, ready, and willing women who both want a go at me, but I won’t be the reason a relationship is torn apart. Standards and all.

“Love those too. Favorite candy bar?”

“Snickers.”

“Why Snickers?”

“Chocolate, nuts, and caramel. Who doesn’t love that combination?” Once again, she lifts her glass and sips.

I don’t mean to give her my fishhook grin that the ladies say makes my dimple pop, but I do. “While I do love me some chocolate covered...nuts, KitKats are where it’s at.”

“Oh, those are a close second. Favorite season?” she asks.

“Fall. Specifically, September.”

“Besides the obvious, because who doesn’t love fall in New England, why?”

“For the same reason Wednesdays are my favorite.”

She toys with the end of her hair and says in a hushed voice, “I like fall too.”

I rest my elbows on the bar again and look her straight in the eye. “I know more about you than most women I bring to bed. When do I get to know your name?”

Her cheeks turn bright pink. “You bed strangers often?”

“No. Never. Which is why I need to know your name.”

“You want to...” She bites down on the corner of that bottom lip again sending shockwaves straight to my dick.

“Angel, if you haven’t figured it out by now, I’m losing my touch.”

“Do you bring home women from the bar every night?”

“No. Never. Not once.” It’s not a lie. I’m not usually bartending. Do I bring women home from the restaurant? Yeah. Thank fuck she didn’t ask me that question.

She finishes her drink and clears her throat. “Um, can I have my bill now?”

Fuck. I scared her away. Not one to corner a woman—unless she’s begging for it—I give her a nod and print up her bill. I’d tell her drinks are on the house, but I’m a selfish prick and want a chance at reading her name on her credit card.

“Excuse me? Can I have another scotch?” The suit calls from the other end of the bar. I set the bill in front of my wet dream and tend to my other customers.

After I’ve mixed a Tom Collins, poured a Glenfiddich, and opened a bottle of champagne, I turn to my angel.

“Fuck.” She’s gone. No goodbye. No thanks for a good time. Nothing.

I hang my head and pick up her empty glass and the cash she left. A card falls to the ground. I crouch and pick it up.

Not a credit card. A key card.

Looking at her check, I see where she’s scribbled her signature, still unreadable, damnit, and her room number.

---