Page 101 of Player
My breath hitches as a myriad emotions pass through his baby blues. Pride. Passion. Want.
Seconds seem like minutes.
“Finn,” I murmur.
“You’ve done yer bit, now let me do mine.”
I want to ask if he can beat him but don’t. If Finn says he’ll win then I’ll trust him to do so.
But from the other room.
“I’ll have a pint waiting for you.”Like shots of whiskey are presently waiting for me.
His lips nuzzle my ear. “Go on, then. But there best be more waiting for me than a pint. Because after all this fighting, I’m in the mood for lovin’.”
He spins me around and gently pushes me away.
But that word ... loving ... stays with me as I leave him alone to fight Mad Dog.
* * *
Five minutes later and I’m tossing back a second shot of whiskey. But it does little to quiet my thoughts. What if Finn is wrong and he can’t win? What if Mad Dog knocks him unconscious and continues to beat him? Who will stop the fight then?
“The jacks is back there if yer going to vomit,” the bartender informs me.
I’m alone at the bar. Everyone else has crowded into the back room to see Mad Dog fight.
I hold up my hand. “It’s not the whiskey that’s making me nauseous.” Finn’s words play on repeat. Mood for loving. Loving. Loving.
He meant sex. Fucking.
It’s me who’s suddenly having an oh-no-she-didn’t revelation. Oh-no-I-didn’t fall in love.
Holy hell. I think I’m in love with Finn.I shake my head. But it’s no use, the realization won’t go away.
“I love Finn.”
There. I said it aloud. The stool didn’t fall out from beneath me. The earth didn’t shake. Time didn’t stand still. “My God. How did this happen?”
I jump as a voice from behind me interrupts. “I’m asking myself the very same question.” My eyes go wide as the man in the suit settles into the seat next to me.
He’s handsome, in a dark, dangerous way. Jet black hair. Brown eyes. A few days growth on his jawline. A shiver runs up my spine because, despite his interruption, he seems displeased.
The bartender returns.
“She’ll have another whiskey. I’ll take a bottle of Dos Equis.”
“Foreign imports are in the back room,” the bartender gruffly replies.
The man taps his Rolex. “I’ll wait.”
The bartender curses and stalks off toward the back room.
“You have a way with people,” I say for the second time tonight.
He doesn’t answer, and an uncomfortable silence falls between us. From beneath my lashes, I study him. A mistake, because looking at him is like staring into a deep, dark pool of water, calm on the surface but with a murky undercurrent ready to drag you beneath. I notice everything about him at once. His expensive watch. The tailored cut of his suit. How handsome he is, in a sensual way that attracts me as much as it alarms me. He’s sophisticated. Out of place in this Irish fight club.
Unsettling.
