Connected (Connections, #1)(6)

I pulled my lower lip to the side with my teeth and smiled playfully. “We were introducing ourselves.”

“Okay, so let’s try again. I’m River and you are . . .?”

My eyes scrutinized his face in search of a non-verbal clue. I found it instantly in his grin. Poking my finger into his chest, I slowly eyed him before taunting, “I’m not sure you need to know that information right now. I’m kind of thinking you might be a stalker.”

His eyes widened as he laughed at me. “You’re not serious are you beautiful girl?”

Unable to control my own laughter, I simply said, “Maybe I am,” but my laughter subsided when I realized the sweet name he’d given me.

Leaning toward me, he was close enough that I could inhale his fresh scent. It was soapy, just out of the shower, a simply amazing smell.

“What? If you’re not going to tell me your name then I get to call you whatever I want.”

Averting my eyes from his gaze, I looked down.

After taking another sip of his beer, he set the mug down. He hooked my chin with his finger and tilted my head up toward him. His lingering touch seared my skin and left it tingling. He stared at me with his intense green eyes and chuckled a little. “Can we talk about you thinking I’m a Jack the Ripper type? I just want you to know, I’m definitely not. In fact, I think it’s safe to say you were staring at me first, but in no way do I think you’re a stalker.”

His touch made me quiver and my mouth dropped open. I was unsure of what to say. I knew he was right. I had stared first. I was surprised that he would call me out on it.

Cocking his head to the side he said, “So we can get past this; let’s just say I was staring first. Not that it really matters.”

We were looking into each other’s eyes as the bartender presented me with my bill. When I turned to pay for my drinks, the connection was broken. Handing my money to the bartender, I thanked him and told him to keep the change. This diversion gave me some time to think about how to handle this potentially dangerous situation. I also had to consider my love for Ben.

I watched River as he ordered two more beers, and I realized that I had to figure out these strange new feelings I was experiencing. I wanted to explore them further because our initial connection from a distance had intensified; not only from his nearness, but also from his total honesty and raw charm. I pushed aside any feelings of guilt about my flirtatious behavior. I handed him one of the shots and said, “Cheers.”

People were bumping into him, into me, but neither of us seemed to care. He looked down at my shirt and back up again before lifting his shot glass to clink mine.

“It’s a beautiful day,” he toasted before drinking his shot.

I tried not to show how turned on I was that he had just quoted the lyrics from one of my favorite songs. All of his irresistible gestures throughout this encounter were competing for first place in my head, but all of them deserved it.

Setting his shot glass down, he put his hand in his pocket. “So, does this mean you forgive me?”

The sound of his voice was strong, but soft, and made him even more tempting. I found myself thinking that he was not only adorable, but he was something else entirely. I knew I shouldn’t be doing this. I had a boyfriend that I loved waiting for me.

I raised an eyebrow and questioned, “Forgive you? Forgive you for what?” I was having a hard time concentrating on the conversation and honestly had no idea what the apology was for.

He shifted on his feet. “You know what? Never mind,” he muttered in my ear. His warm breath reached my neck and I wanted to feel it everywhere.

Looking me up and down, he changed the subject and asked, “What, no costume?”

Continuing with this dangerous flirtation, I glanced down my own body, motioning with my hands from head to toe. “How do you know this isn’t my costume?”

While tugging on my t-shirt and pulling me a little closer, he seductively whispered, “If that's your costume you’re definitely taking first place in the contest because it’s the sexiest one I’ve ever seen.”

We were silent for a minute; not even our heavy breathing could be heard. The noise from the bar and the crowd of the people around us had extinguished, but his words, his touch; they inflamed me, excited me, and sent fire through my veins.

“Where'd you get this anyway?” he asked, tugging at the knot on my shirt pulling me even closer.

It felt like the room was spinning and I wasn’t sure if it was him, the alcohol, or the fact that he just asked me a question I didn’t want to answer. “My dad managed The Greek and was a collector of concert t-shirts,” I said, trying to push back the emotion welling inside me.

He seemed to understand my hesitation, maybe from my use of the word ‘was’ or maybe from my body language. He nodded, cleared his throat, and once again totally changed the subject.

“So, have you ever seen Foreigner play?” he asked, now pointing to his own shirt and grinning.

As I looked at the bold white letters across his shirt, I pushed aside all of my sadness and focused on our conversation. We were just two people who had a lot in common, talking, or at least that was what I wanted to think. When our drinks were gone, he ordered another round. As I finished the shot, I accidentally slammed the glass on the bar, causing a loud crack and the bartender glowered at me. I mouthed, “Sorry.”