Irresistibly Yours (Oxford #1)(80)

“Manhattan, Knob Creek bourbon if you have it, with Carpano Antica if you have that,” Jackson said.

“Of course, sir.” The middle-aged bartender didn’t even bat an eye at the precise order.

Now this was one thing New York did better than Texas—cocktails. Perfectly cold, perfectly mixed, perfectly classic cocktails.

The bartender fluttered down a white, monogrammed cocktail napkin in front of Jackson as he stirred the drink, before straining it into a chilled glass.

Perfect. Utter f*cking perfection.

And what shit it was that Jackson’s life had turned into this—the highlight of his day was a well-made cocktail.

Jackson took a sip of his drink as he surveyed the room with a bored eye. It was early on a Wednesday evening, which meant that most of the clientele were the after-work business crowd: men in perfectly tailored suits, women in classy pencil skirts with perfectly coiffed hair.

Houston had this too—a thriving business scene—but it was different.

Or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was just that the way people responded to him was different here. Not so long ago, he could walk into a room—any room—and be swarmed with fans wanting autographs or selfies or just to touch him.

People occasionally recognized him in New York, but more often than not, he blended into the suit-wearing, Monday-through-Friday crowd as though he were one of them.

Because he was one of them.

Or at least he was trying damn hard to be.

Jackson slid a finger under the collar of his shirt, tugging it outward just slightly in an effort to ease the choking sensation it gave him. The tailor had assured him that the shirt was a perfect fit, but it still felt tight.

Trying to distract himself from the fact that he was wearing a boring blue suit just like most of the other men in the bar, he let his attention shift to the women.

It was one of the few benefits of his divorce—the ability to look at other women without feeling guilty.

Hell, in the early years of his marriage he hadn’t even wanted to look at other women. Madison had been…everything.

Even toward the end, he’d stayed faithful.

And not a damn person believed him.

Jackson took a sip of his drink and let his eyes scan the room. There were the two cocktail waitresses in their tight black dresses. Hot, but young. Far too young. There was the group of classy, designer-clad women near the window, nursing their white wines.

Then there were the businesswomen on their cellphones, the gussied-up women on dates, and the elderly woman who’d just ordered her second martini….

Bored.

He was bored. Jackson’s fingers crept to his collar once more. Sweet Jesus, was the thing actually getting tighter?

He went for another sip of his drink only to freeze when he saw a pair of very nice legs out of the corner of his eye. He turned his head subtly to get a better look, and all traces of boredom vanished.

A woman in a short red dress will do that to a man. Especially when the woman has the most perfect pair of legs he’d ever seen. Long—sinfully long—toned, tanned…

His eyes traveled up…and up and up, over the trim ankles in their sexy sandals, over the defined calves and toned thighs and narrow hips. The woman was tall and thin, bordering on lanky, which he didn’t usually go for, but it was working for her.

His gaze kept right on going, over the narrow waist, small but perky breasts, until he reached her face.

Pretty. Very pretty. Her shoulder-length blond hair was tousled and sexy, her eyes brilliantly blue. And that mouth…

That mouth was smiling at him. No, smirking. At him.

The woman had definitely caught him in the act.

Shit. Might as well roll with it.

Jackson calmly lifted his drink to his lips as he met her eyes, only to feel a little jolt as their gazes collided. Jackson felt a punch of lust in his gut, followed by something else…something low and dangerous, not unlike an eerie siren trying to tell him that something was very, very amiss.

Slowly, the woman lowered herself to the barstool next to his. He watched in horrified arousal as she reached out, plucked his drink from his hand, raised it to red, red lips, and took a deliberate sip.

Only after she’d set the drink—his drink—back on the bar did she speak.

“Hello, Jackson.”

“God. Mollie.”

He continued to stare in shock at his ex sister-in-law.

Oh hell. When had this happened?