Page 392 of One More Kiss

“You weren’t here a minute ago.”

With a light laugh, I confirm, “No. No, I wasn’t. Sorry about that.”

“No need to apologize.”

“Okay. Well––” My words get lost in my throat as those same crystal blue eyes zero in on my mouth before his ticks up on one side, obviously aware of how flustered he’s making me. Which is weird. I don’t get flustered. I’m used to guys asking for my number multiple times a night. It’s not that I’m drop-dead gorgeous or anything. I’m just…an easy target, I guess. And I get tipped when I’m friendly, regardless of whether or not I’m really interested.

This guy, however, I’m interested in.

At least for one night.

I clear my throat and wipe down the already clean bartop that separates us, ignoring the money he’d set in front of him. “Can I get you anything?”

“I was just, uh…” He pauses as his gaze flicks toward the empty stage, then to the exit as if it’s calling his name. But he doesn’t get to his feet. “Leaving.”

“Are you sure?” I ask. “I’d love to buy you a drink.”

“You wanna buy me a drink?”

“Of course. You look like you’re new around here, and what kind of host would I be if I didn’t make you feel welcome?” With a sugary sweet smile, I offer my hand for him to shake. “I’m Sammie, by the way.”

He rests his elbows on the tall counter, then takes my offered hand. “I’m Hawthorne.”

The warmth from his touch sends tingles racing up my arm, but I try to ignore them.

“Nice to meet you,” I return.

“You too, Sammie.” He rubs his thumb along the back of my hand for an extra second, then lets me go.

I bite the inside of my cheek in hopes of it staving off my blush before asking, “So, Hawthorne. Is that a first or last name?”

“Last.”

“In that case, I take back my last introduction. If we’re not on a first-name basis, then I’m Norris. Nice to meet you.”

He snorts, the sound taking me by surprise. The guy screams finesse and decorum. And a snort is very un-gentlemanlike, but also…kind of awesome. “Nice to meet you, too, Norris.” This time, he offers his hand, and I take it, playing along with our second introduction while dying to see if that same spark ignites from a simple touch.

My skin pebbles with awareness as his grasp tightens around my tiny hand.

Yup. There it is.

Why, hello, again, Spark.

“So, Norris,” he teases, lifting his chin toward the back corner of the bar where a certain someone is still missing. “Tell me something. Is the band always this late to start?”

With a grimace, my attention flicks toward the quiet stage and back to the man in front of me. “Not usually.”

“Any idea what’s holding them up?”

I shake my head. “I’m not sure, but it’s definitely uncharacteristic of the band to be this late,” I lie.

“This late?”

Shit.

“Can I buy you a drink for your patience?” I ask.

He hums low in his throat as his cool gaze slides over me before his mouth quirks up on one side––again––as if he’s come to some kind of conclusion, though I have no idea what it is.

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