Page 13 of Power
She stared at me, mouth slightly agape. Then—God help me—she smiled. The kind of smile that could power Chicago for a week. But she dropped it immediately, as if reminding herself there was nothing funny about this situation at all.
I disagree.
“I’ve never seen someone use a pen like a weapon of mass destruction,” I said, finally extending the napkin. As she reached for it, I couldn’t help but notice her elegant hands with fierce red nails that suggested she wasn’t always the type to plot revenge on bar napkins, but rather, the feminine, alluring type. The moment her fingers brushed mine, something like fire crackled through my veins. “It’s a work of art. You should frame it.”
“Right,” she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Watching her bite her lower lip was doing dangerous things to my self-control. “Well, uh, thank you. I promise I’m not actually a violent person.”
I couldn’t help but lean closer, drawn in by her nervous energy and that hint of vanilla perfume.
“You know, most people just fantasize about getting revenge. But you? You’ve got style. Terrifying, possibly criminal style, but style nonetheless.” I winked, enjoying the way a fresh pool of crimson burst beneath her cheeks.
Behind us, someone cleared their throat loudly. Right. We were still blocking the entrance. The Friday night crowd wasbuilding, and judging by the grumbling, they weren’t thrilled about our impromptu conversation near the doorway.
“Right, well, uh, nice meeting you,” she stammered, fidgeting with the napkin.
“Jace,” I said, extending my hand.
“Scarlett.”
What a gorgeous name for a stunning woman.
Her hand fit into mine like it was made to be there. I reluctantly let go, already missing the warmth of her fingers against mine.
Focus, Lockwood.
“Scarlett, I’d like to buy you a drink,” I announced.
With her eyebrows shooting up, she looked surprised. And based on the softening of her lips, amused.
“You said that as a statement.”
“Too bold?”
She smirked, and her tone was a shade of feisty I wanted to hear more of. “The fact that you said that as a statement tells me a lot about you.”
A couple squeezed past us, muttering under their breath. She shifted closer to make room, and suddenly, the air between us felt charged.
“Oh?” I challenged, trying not to get caught staring at her mouth, but my God, look at those lips.
“Most men I’ve met would have framed the invitation as a question,” she continued.
“I’m not like most men. What kind of drink do you like?”
“But you said it as a fact,” she pressed, studying me with those sharp eyes. “Which tells me you’re used to getting what you want.”
I leaned in. “And right now, what I want is to buy you a drink.”So I can learn everything about you.
“Actually,” she amended, “I’d argue most men, after seeing that list, would be running by now.”
“Most men are boring.”
“How do you know I’m not some psycho, making that list about things I want to do to my ex?”
I leaned in, closer still. “My intuition says whoever made it onto that list deserved every word.”
“Your intuition could be terrible.”
“My intuition is currently telling me you’re stalling because you find me intriguing.”
