Page 3 of Salvatore

He nods, wiping his hands on a rag tucked into the waistband of his dark stonewashed jeans. “What can I get you?”

“Three Bay Breezes, extra strong, please.”

“No problem.”

I tap my foot along to the pounding music and admire the black gloss on matte black manicure I gave myself last night while he prepares the drinks. One day I’ll have the funds to pay someone else to finesse my nails so my right hand isn’t slightly mangled in comparison to my left. However, until that day, I’ll have to make do with my amateur ass.

I’m still admiring the shiny tips of my nails when someone walks up behind me, the taller, broader frame dominating my periphery just over my right shoulder.

I don’t avert my gaze from my hand, but that doesn’t stop me from determining that the newcomer is male. Everything about him is dark—hair, stubble, suit.

“Are you after the usual, sir?” the bartender asks as he pours vodka into three tumblers.

“Make it a double,” the stranger responds, his deep, smooth voice carrying low-key commanding confidence.

I drop my hand to my side and ignore the hum of interest that niggles in my belly.

Don’t even think about it.

This is girls’ night.

And besides, I don’t do dark features.

The man over my shoulder inches closer, his increased proximity infiltrating my lungs in earthy hints of patchouli and sandalwood.

“I wouldn’t have taken you for a Bay Breeze kind of woman,” he says close enough to bespell my skin in a wash of goose bumps.

I avert my gaze to the colorful array of bottles behind the bar, casting the temptation out of my periphery.

It’s girls’ night.

Liv’snight.

Distracting my best friend from her sorrows trumps getting laid… but there’s no need to be rude.

“And what kind of woman would you take me for?” I ask.

“I would’ve picked a French martini.”

I raise a brow, appreciating his choice as my attention remains fixed on Mr. Johnny Walker on the second shelf. “And why is that?”

“It’s sophisticated, embodies elegance, and is far more intoxicating than a Bay Breeze.”

I roll my eyes and force my mouth to remain shut as my sex-starved heart thuds an extra beat.

Girls’ night.

Liv’s night.

“I’m not trying to hit on you,” he drawls, all growly and overly masculine. “Just making an observation.”

I scoff. “Of course.”

The slightest hint of his breathy snicker tickles my neck, the resulting tingles infiltrating my limbs. “If that sounded like a pick-up line I can’t help feeling secondhand embarrassment for the guys who’ve attempted to seduce you in the past.”

Secondhand embarrassment is definitely a common occurrence. It’s hard to find confident men who can actually pull off the personality trait without seeming douchey. But when the planets align and a beacon of testosterone-fueled self-assurance does gift me with his presence I’m always tempted to reach for something more than a one-night stand, and there’s no room for that in my life.

I need to stick to the fumbling, bumbling blonds with blue eyes.

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