Page 7 of Worth the Rush
There’s quiet chatter floating around the room, and checking the mental tally in my head, we can add this bar to the charming column. I walk straight to the counter, ready to have a drink and call it a night. The bartender is older and moving a bit slowly, filling a glass with beer. I internally tell myself not to sound like I’ve had the last couple of days that I’ve had. It’s not this man's fault.Patience, Ivy.I remind myself.
Sitting down on an empty barstool I ask, “Can I get a vodka tonic with lime when you get a minute, please?” Hoping I sound friendly and not like I’m in a hurry. I remove my jacket, then, after debating it for two seconds my hat, running a hand over my head and through my hair that I’m sure looks matted and greasy. I set them both on the empty stool to the left of me and lift my head to take a look around the bar. I don’t get any further than the seat to my right, where a pair of icy-blue eyes are watching me. They’re attached to a face that could be a priceless work of art hung in a museum.
A sharp jaw covered in stubble that I can almost feel running my finger over. High cheekbones and pouty lips. His hair is dirty blond and messy. I run my eyes down his throat to wide shoulders, and that’s when I notice his clothing. He’s in some kind of jumpsuit. Red with a patch on the shoulder. Then I see the reflective band around his elbow, and over his chest is another patch in the shape of a triangle. Alpine Search and Rescue is embroidered around a red plus sign, signaling someone in the medical field.
I realize, too late, that I’ve been ogling this strangerfor far longer than acceptable. I flick my eyes back to his face and find him smirking at me.Kill me.The bartender has my drink and sets it down in front of me. I turn my attention to him, and hopefully, the dim lighting in here hides my blush.
“Just the one drink tonight? Or do you want to open a tab, hon?” he asks. Most of the time any term of endearment annoys the hell out of me, but this man exudes wholesomeness.
I reach for my purse. “Just the one tonight should do it. Thank you,” I respond.
“Add her drink to my bill, would you, Buck?” The voice comes from the man beside me that I just visually catcalled.Wonderful.
I turn toward him to politely decline. “That’s not necessary,” I tell him.
“Necessary?” he asks quietly. Almost to himself, then lifting his eyes to meet mine, he stares at me as he speaks. “Probably not,” he agrees thoughtfully. I start to turn back to my purse when he speaks again. “I can think of a lot of things that aren'tnecessary.” He pauses, smiling. “But I still enjoy doing them,” he tells me, picking up his beer and taking a drink. I watch his throat as he swallows, then his tongue as it peeks out to lick his lips. I don’t particularly care for beer, one tick in thenot-my-type column,but then why do I wish it were me licking the bitter liquid off his lips? Probably because he’s hot. Like stop-and-do-a-double-take-in-the-streets hot.
Still living in the delusion I’ve found myself in, I lean onto my elbow, cradling my jaw into my hand and angling myself toward him on my stool. I wonder what other things he enjoys. What he findsnecessaryand what he finds indulgent. Is he a list maker? A rule follower?Why do I care?
“What’s another?” I ask, my curiosity getting the best ofme. He faces me and mimics my body language. Pointedly and playfully. He takes up so much space, and when he turns on his stool, his knees brush against mine. I feel the brief touch go up my spine, causing goose bumps on the back of my neck.
“Talking to strangers in bars,” he says, and I have to think back to the question I asked him before responding. “Although, after you looked at me for as long as you just did, it started to feel necessary.” The right side of his mouth tilts up, and I spy a dimple. This man having a dimple seems unnecessary. He’s got enough going for him without that fucking dimple.
“I’m worried that you may have a selective memory. It wasyouwho was staring atme,” I tell him.
A few small lines form between his brows as he scrunches them down in disagreement. “I observed a beautiful woman sitting down in the seat right next to mine. Staring feels like too strong of a word,” he says.
“Staring mayfeellike too strong of a word, but it doesn’t change the fact that you were doing it,” I quip before taking a sip of my drink.Mmm that’s good.
His answering chuckle is a deep rumbling. I swear I can almost feel the comforting vibrations in my chest. I take another long drink. I don’t even know this man, but I want to curl up on his chest and purr. That’s an unsettling thought…and visual. I shake my head.
“What thoughts are you getting rid of when you do that?” he asks, infiltrating my brain. I choke on my vodka tonic.Oh god, that burns.He pats my back gently and hands me his napkin.This is fun and not at all embarrassing.I’m not usually this off my game. I’m blaming it on the past couple of days. “That bad, huh?” he asks, and I feel my neck start to heat because, yeah, that bad.
“I’m sure you’re a really nice guy, but I’m not interested in sleeping with you,” I blurt out. I’m lying, but I’m trying to put my best foot forward here. I need to refrain from making the wrong choices I always seem to make. Like going back to this guy's place. I don’t need my first night in town to be making a mess that I’ll have to clean up later with a local. Although, I can almost guarantee I would be having the time of my life getting messy with this man. Better to rip the Band-Aid off.
I’m prepared for him to be frustrated, for him to tell me I’m a tease. I’m prepared for him to call me a bitch or pretend I’m ugly. I’m not prepared to be startled by his laughter. Full-blown, head-thrown-back laughter. I stare at him. Confused. “I’ll take that as my cue to leave then.” I sigh, grabbing my drink and reaching for my coat.
His laughter slows, and I can tell he’s trying hard to hold it together when he retorts, “Who said I was planning on sleeping with you?”This is embarrassing.Did I misread his attention?
“Listen, I’m sorry if I offended you—” I start, but his hand coming to rest gently on the counter next to my arm halts my words. He’s not touching me, but I can feel the heat coming off his arm.
“I’m not offended,” he informs me, still smiling. “And for the record, I do want to do things with you.” He lowers his voice, and I lean forward to catch what he’s saying, a wicked grin on his face. “I want to do a lot ofunnecessarythings with you.” He drags out his words and they hit their mark, if their mark is between my legs. “Sleepingisn’t on the list, but?—”
“There’s a list?” I cut him off this time, and his eyes get shiny.
“An extensive one,” he murmurs.
“Do you make a lot of lists?” I ask. “You seem like the type to make a lot of lists.”
“I do...” he confirms before asking, “What's your name?”
“That’s none of your concern tonight, boy scout. I’m not looking for anything after tonight. I don’t plan on being in town for very long,” I tell him.
“Well, I guess there goes my plan of trying to lock you down and get hitched next week,” he says with a grin.
“Funny,” I tell him and take a drink.
“I’mtechnicallyonly in town for the night,” he says, and that bit of information has my ears perking up.So he’s not from here?I finish the rest of my drink and give him a small smile. I’m about to make a decision that may haunt me later, but he looks too good to pass up. What’s the worst that could happen?
