Page 3 of Wild Card
I scoff under my breath. Help. That’s generous of her.
“Something funny?”
I hear that voice again, closer this time. And when I look up, she’s standing right in front of me.
And fuck me if for a moment I don’t feel as tongue-tied as the kid I was just laughing at. I stare back at her, feeling like I could squirm under the weight of her soulful gaze.
I grumble out an irritated-sounding no to cover for my otherwise-stunned reaction.
I deemed her pretty before, but I was wrong—she’s fucking gorgeous.
Her lips tug up in an almost-knowing smile. “Good. I’d hate to sit with a stranger who’s laughing to himself over nothing.”
“Sorry?” I ask, confused.
But any confusion vanishes when the woman slides the chair opposite me back from the table and takes a seat.
Uninvited.
“You don’t mind, do you?”
I straighten, a little put off by her…familiarity? Friendliness? I don’t know how to define it, but it throws me off. I’m not the guy who strikes up conversations with strangers. Hell, I barely like striking up conversations with the few people in my life that I consider friends.
“What if someone else is sitting there?” I grumble, not particularly comfortable with the unexpected nature of this run-in—or how attractive I find her.
She sets her bag on the floor with a husky, amused laugh. When she straightens, she doesn’t look remotely uncomfortable, resting her elbow on the table and propping her chin against her palm. “No one else is sitting here.”
I cross my arms and lean back, creating some space between us. “How do you know?”
Her head tilts, the overhead lights highlighting the apples of her cheeks. “No bag. No phone. And you are giving off some serious stay-the-fuck-away energy.”
I quirk a disbelieving brow at the woman. “Stay-the-fuck-away energy?”
She hits me with a conspiratorial smile. “Yes. If you were a house, I would sage you.”
Ah, more granola, woo-woo, make-lemonade, salt-of-the-earth shit. Exactly what I’m in the mood for.
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing, and I suspect she picks up on my cynicism, but she just reaches across the table. That same tattoo I saw earlier catches my eye as dainty vines and leaves unfurl in my direction.
I frown at her hand, which gets me a throaty laugh followed by “Hi. Thanks for inviting me to join you. My name is Gwen, and you are?”
I glance back up, and her sparkling eyes flit between mine, a dimple deepening on her right cheek the longer I glare back. I swear to god, she’s getting a kick out of irritating me.
So, to ruin her fun, I reach for her hand with a brusque “Hi. I’m Bash. And I think our definitions ofinvitemight be wildly different.”
Gwen lifts one shoulder in a gentle shrug. “Maybe this seat was meant to be empty.”
My lips flatten. “Yes, exactly. It was.”
She laughs softly, head shaking as though I fascinate her. “Yet here I am. And you know what they say… When life gives you lemons…” She winks at me, and my jeans feel the slightest bit tighter across the front.
My jaw flexes but I give the woman seated across from me my best bored look in a pathetic attempt to cover for my downright boyish reaction to her.
“What if I wanted limes?” I ask, right as a flustered server pops up at our table with a breathless, “What can I get you?”
With her eyes fixed on mine and that pretty mouth curved into a knowing smile, Gwen—the interloper—doesn’t miss abeat. “Oh, thank goodness you’re here. This man desperately needs a lime margarita. Extra sour.”
CHAPTER TWO
