Frayed (Connections, #4)(123)

The now drinkless man with a wet shirt looked at him and nodded. River pulled out his wallet and handed him a ten. “Buy two.” The man took the money and walked away, muttering something under his breath. River immediately returned his attention to me, and I bit the corner of my lower lip and smiled at him.

There we were, standing face-to-face, with only a few drinks separating us. Sliding one of the beers toward him, I took a sip of my own even though the ice had melted. “Thank you. That guy sure as shit wasn’t happy with me. In fact, he kind of acted like an *.”

Taking a sip of his drink, he started to laugh, almost spitting it out. Skimming his finger over my bare shoulder, his eyes locked on mine. “You’re more than welcome.”

Quivering from his touch and intense gaze, I took a step back, fearful of where this might lead.

Moving forward, he traced my last step. He was not going to let the distance widen between us. He stared intently into my eyes. “Now, where were we? Do we need to start over?” He waited for my response as he watched me swallow my drink.

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 . . . ?”

“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. “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 registered the sweet name he’d called me.

Leaning toward me, he was close enough that I could inhale his fresh scent. It was a soapy, just-out-of-the-shower 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 touch seared my skin and left it tingling. He stared at me with his intense green eyes and chuckled. “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.”

My mouth dropped open. I was unsure of what to say. I knew he was right. I had stared first.

“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 passed me my bill. When I turned to pay for my drinks, our connection was broken. Handing my money to the bartender, I thanked him and told him to keep the change. This distraction gave me some time to think about how to handle this potentially dangerous situation.

I watched River as he ordered two more beers, and realized I had to work out my conflicted feelings. I pushed my guilt aside and handed him one of the shots.

“Cheers.”

“It’s a beautiful day,” he replied before shooting back the shot.

I tried not to show how turned on I was that he had just quoted lyrics from one of my favorite songs.

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

His voice was strong, but soft, and made him even more tempting. I found myself thinking that he was not only adorable, but unlike anyone I had ever encountered before. I knew I shouldn’t be doing this. I had a boyfriend who I loved waiting for me.

I raised an eyebrow and asked, “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 brushed my neck and I wanted to feel it everywhere.

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

Continuing our dangerous flirtation, I glanced down, 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 around us had quieted, 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 closer.

It felt like the room was spinning and I wasn’t sure if it was him, the alcohol, or the fact that he had 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 emotions welling up inside me.

He seemed to understand my hesitation before nodding, clearing his throat, and he once again 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 chest, I pushed aside my sadness and refocused on our conversation. We were just two people who had a lot in common—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, and the bartender glowered at me. “Sorry,” I mouthed.