Page 2 of The Billionaire's Claim: Possession
I frown. What’s she upset about? I’m the one who should be annoyed. I have to spend my eighteenth birthday tomorrow in L.A. because my overbearing grandmother insisted. If I had it my way, I’d be on a plane to Tuscany already.
“Don’t tell me Ryder’s leaving too.”
My brother is too pretty even to my eyes, and has an army of girls stalking him and generally making nuisances of themselves. Their shameless fawning has only made him more insufferable, but what can I say? He hit the genetic jackpot.
And Marcella’s one of the worst. She has a major crush on Ryder. I can deal with that, as long as she doesn’t go the TMI route and tell me what she wants to do to him. He is my brother, after all.
“Then I won’t, and for your information, we’ve been here for three endless weeks.” I find myself hesitating at the door. Maybe I’m being silly, but I don’t want to go through the threshold and into the bar. “Come on. Let’s hit some other place.”
“Where?” Vanessa says, at the same time Marcella says, “No other place has a bartender as hot as this one.”
“I thought you liked Ryder…”
“I do, but he keeps avoiding me. Come on.” Marcella tugs at my wrist. When I don’t budge, she pulls hard.
Ugh.
I almost lose my balance and stumble inside, my hair spilling forward to cover my vision. I push it back roughly. “Hey! You don’t have to get physical.”
“You weren’t moving,” Marcella says, as though that’s a valid defense.
I look at Vanessa, hoping my aspiring attorney cousin will tell Marcella that that won’t
pass muster in court, but she merely gives me that “hey, she’s your friend” shrug.
Sighing, I glance around. “Let’s find a table.”
“Counter,” Marcella almost yells in her excitement.
Vanessa starts to say something. I lose the track of their conversation as the fine hair at my nape bristles—not unpleasantly—and my gaze lands on the sole bartender on the other side of the counter.
Everything fades away except him.
I’ve met handsome men, hot men, aristocratic men, charming men on both sides of the Atlantic. My family alone has four brothers and four cousins who make women stupid with their looks. Having grown up around such male beauty, I’ve always considered myself immune—able to appreciate it without turning into some kind of infatuated drooler.
But the bartender…
Everything about him is absurd.
The absurd perfection of his bone structure. The absurd blue of his eyes. The absurd firmness of his lips. The absurd muscularity of his big, strong body.
When our gazes collide, I feel like every cell in my body is waking up after a lifetime of slumber. My heart beats a little bit faster, a little bit harder. Blood flows a little quicker, a little hotter.
Is this sexual attraction?
I shake my head inwardly. I’ve felt attraction to guys before. But nothing like this. This man shines like a brilliant gemstone, like the heavens opened up and a halo appeared around him.
Then I remember what Grandpa used to say.
“When I first met your grandmother, I knew she was the one.”
“How?” I asked. An exceptional artist, Grandpa has a propensity for exaggeration and dramatic flair.
“Because she made me forget where I was. Every time I laid eyes on her, nothing else mattered. Colors were brighter, food tasted better, and the air felt cleaner. All because I met her.”
I laughed. “That’s just infatuation, Grandpa.”
He shook his head. “No, no, my little angel. It’s called love. My soul recognized hers.”
