Page 9 of Stroke of Fate

So much for preparation.

4 | BEAR

Whiskey.

But not just any kind. The expensive stuff. The kind my dad keeps in his office for special occasions, like when he wins a big court case or his best friend comes over.

When I was younger, I’d wait all day for him to come home to hear about his day. Back then, I didn’t understand what winning or losing meant at his job, only whether it was a whiskey day or not.

Some days, he’d scoop me up in a big hug, swing me around, and shake his head, whispering, “Not today, sweetheart.”

Other days, he’d do the same, but before setting me back down, he’d say, “It’s time for the good stuff, Bear.”

Those were my favorite days. I’d run off, squealing, into his office. Carefully, I’d pull out the thick, heavy glass bottle and, with his help, pour a ‘two-finger’ serving of liquor for him.

I’d always scrunch my nose at the strong smell, but the color fascinated me most. It was a rich, amber brown that seemed to change color depending on how the light hit the glass.

What sparked the childhood memory isn’t alcohol or winning court cases but rather a pair of amber-brown eyes staring at me. They’re framed by long black lashes and set in averyattractive face.

The kind of attraction that makes your faith kick in because suddenly, you’re praying you don’t make a fool of yourself in front of a hot stranger with whiskey-colored eyes and midnight-black hair.

God, he’s nerve-rackingly beautiful.

I bet he’s never taken a bad photo, not with those cheekbones and strong jawline. My eyes practically drink him in, and the longer I stare, the more I feel the heat creeping up my neck.

I was wrong—very wrong—in my earlier assumption that being cheated on would make the opposite sex unappealing to me. I just hadn’t methimyet.

“Can I help you?” The low timbre of his voice draws my attention to his full lips, and I notice the faded scar above his top lip. Lighter than the surrounding skin, the scar tissue is a flaw on his otherwise flawless face. Knowing he is human and not some reincarnated Greek god makes me oddly happy.

When he crosses his arms, I force myself not to stare at how his biceps strain against his shirt sleeve or the prominent vein running down one of them.

Focus Bear. Stick to the plan.

It was supposed to be easy-peasy, but suddenly, it feels more like hardy-tardy. I take a discreet breath, trying to slow my racing pulse and fight the ridiculous urge to retreat to the safety of my apartment.

Swallowing past my dry throat, I push the words out. “Uh, yes…hi…um.”

Ohmigod, I can’t even form a proper sentence in front of him.

I clear my throat and try again. “I’m looking for something of mine.”

There. That’s better.

Needing something to do with my hands, I shift my tote bag from one shoulder to the other and immediately realize my mistake.

His gaze follows the movement before dragging down the length of my body in a slow, deliberate perusal. I can’t explain it, but he’s not leering. It’s more like he’s memorizing every part ofme. And unlike before, I find myself not hating attention. Ilikethat he’s looking at me.

If my heart wasn’t in overdrive before, it is now. I’m surprised it hasn’t bolted from my chest and galloped down the hallway.

I force myself to step back, putting much-needed space between us. His eyes narrow slightly, but he doesn’t comment on the move.

A strange tension lingers in the air. When I can’t take it anymore, he opens his mouth, snuffing it out with a single question.

“What exactly are you looking for?” His voice is rougher than it was moments ago.

“A package?” I don’t know why it comes out as a question, other than I’m feeling so off-kilter that I can’t think straight.

His mouth briefly twitches upward before he drags his tongue over his bottom lip.

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