That One Night: A Pucking Around Prequel Novella (3)

I pause, the cup of tea raised halfway to my lips. “What makes you think I want to be left alone?”

He snorts, taking a sip of his beer. “You mean aside from the big ‘FUCK YOU’ you’ve got tattooed on your forehead?” He gestures at my face with his hand.

I purse my lips. “Oh, so you can see it. Good. For a minute there, I thought it must have washed off in the shower.”

“Nope. You were giving that guy all the signs to fuck right off. Not to mention you were practically falling off your stool to get away. Then I saw him touch you,” he mutters, his mood shifting from sad to mad. “I saw you flinch.”

I stiffen, feeling the ghost of that unwanted touch between my shoulders.

“I hate guys like that,” he says, taking another sip of his beer.

“Like what?”

“Guys that think they can take whatever they want from a woman. I was serious,” he adds, turning slightly to face me, those hazel eyes holding me captive. “My sister, Amy…she hasn’t always had the best luck with guys,” he explains. “I see a woman who is clearly uncomfortable, and I sorta see red. She’d call me a protective alpha hole. Maybe you will too. But you know, whatever. Chicks always say nothing will get better until the good guys stand up and set the bad ones straight. If it keeps my Amy safe, I’ll be the jerk. And maybe guys like Douche McYachtclub over there will mind their manners next time.”

I gasp, setting my tea down with a rattle. “Ohmygod, shut up.”

He raises a dark brow in confusion. “What? That guy was being a total douche.”

I grin, brushing my hand along his arm, as I lean in with a laugh. “I’ve been calling him Chad McBoatface in my head this whole time.”

He glances back over his shoulder and snorts with laughter too. “Yeah…yeah, that guy is a total Chad.”

I settle back on my stool. We both gaze up at the TVs. There’s a baseball game on next to the soccer game. The bartender brings over two steaming baskets of fried food.

The mozzarella sticks smell amazing. And I’m not actually lactose intolerant. If my knight in shining grey cotton offers to share, I’m not saying no. Besides, a fried stick of cheese might help soak up some of the bourbon currently sitting in my empty stomach.

“Want some of this?” he asks, sliding me a sharing plate.

I smile, reaching for a mozzarella stick. “Sure, thanks.”

He picks at the food, checking his phone.

As soon as a commercial starts on both the TV screens, I clear my throat. “So…what brings you to Seattle?”





2





It’s all I can do to act natural, eating my fries and pretending to watch baseball, like I’m not sitting next to the world’s most beautiful woman. I had no idea what she looked like when I walked in. She had her back turned the whole time. I saw a woman clearly desperate to be left alone, and I didn’t think, I just acted, calling out my sister’s name.

When she spun around on that barstool, I swear to god, she stole all the air from my lungs like some slow-mo scene in a chick flick. Her dark brown hair flowed down her back in waves, the tips golden in the sunlight shining in from the bar’s wall of floor-to-ceiling windows.

She’s wearing this sexy black outfit, open down to her waist in the back. The front cuts in a low “V” between her breasts. And—fuck—she has tattoos. They’re all small, nothing larger than a playing card, but they dot up both arms, on her shoulder, a few on her fingers. I can see the hint of one on her ribs disappearing under her outfit. Cute, girlie stuff, like hearts and arrows and music notes.

And fuck me if she doesn’t have a sexy little geometric pattern low on her sternum, disappearing between her breasts. Now I’m the pig wanting to see how far down it goes. I want to lick it. And she smells so good. It’s floral and smooth, but with a hint of spice.

Shit. Fuck. Lock it down, Compton.

I stifle a groan, covering it by clearing my throat and reaching for my food.

Grab fry. Lift to mouth. Chew.

Oh, and did I mention the nose ring? Yeah, she’s got a fuckhot septum piercing marked by a little ring of twisted gold. Between that and her dark eyes painted black and her red lips, I think I’m in love.

And I don’t even know her name.

And I’m not going to learn it, because she doesn’t want to talk. She wants to be left alone. And I’ll be damned if I’m gonna be that guy who saves her from one douche only to become one myself. Nope, I’m keeping my eyes on my basket of fries, my dick in my pants, and my questions to myself.

But then I feel her shift next to me, clearing her throat.

“So…what brings you to Seattle?” she says in that soft voice.

“Umm, my sister,” I reply.

“Amy?”

I nod.

She smiles. “She’s not about to waltz in here and blow our story, is she?”

I sigh, letting myself give in to the pity party I’ve been desperate to throw since I got off the phone with her thirty minutes ago. I couldn’t just sit alone in my room, so I wandered up here to the bar.

Jake Compton, loser table for one.

“She’s not coming,” I reply. “We were supposed to meet here as a sort of halfway point. We were gonna spend the week hanging out and doing touristy shit. But her flight got cancelled.”