Beautiful Redemption (The Maddox Brothers, #2)(2)

My cell phone buzzed in my blazer pocket, and I pulled it out to check the display. It was another text message from Jackson. Beside his name, a small six fit snuggly between parentheses, noting the number of messages he’d sent. That trapped number reminded me of the last time he’d touched me—during a hug I’d had to coax him out of.

I was two thousand one hundred and fifty miles from Jackson, and he was still able to make me feel guilty—but not guilty enough.

I clicked the side button on my cell phone, darkening the screen, without replying to Jackson’s message. Then, I lifted my finger to the bartender while gulping down the remainder of my sixth glass.

I’d found Cutter’s Pub right around the corner from my new condo in Midtown, an area in San Diego nestled between the International Airport and the zoo. My Chicago colleagues were wearing FBI-standard parkas over their bulletproof vests while I was enjoying the warmer than usual San Diego weather in a tube top and blazer with skinny jeans. I felt a little overdressed and a tad sweaty. Granted, that could be from the amount of liquor in my system.

“You’re awfully little to be in a place like this,” the man two stools down said.

“A place like what?” Anthony said, raising a brow while practically fisting a tumbler.

The man ignored him.

“I’m not little,” I said before taking a drink. “I’m petite.”

“Isn’t that the same thing?”

“I also have a Taser in my purse and a mean left hook, so don’t bite off more than you can chew.”

“Your kung fu is strong.”

I didn’t give the man the gratification of attention. Instead, I stared forward. “Was that a racist remark?”

“Absolutely not. You just seem a little violent to me.”

“I’m not violent,” I said although it was preferable to coming off as a vapid, easy target.

“Oh, really?” He wasn’t asking. He was antagonizing. “I just recently read about female Asian peace leaders being honored. I’m guessing you weren’t one of them.”

“I’m also Irish,” I grumbled.

He chuckled once. There was something in his voice—not just ego but more than confidence. Something made me want to turn and get a good look at him, but I kept my eyes on the line of liquor bottles on the other side of the bar.

After the man realized he wasn’t going to get a better response, he moved to the empty stool next to me. I sighed.

“What are you drinking?” he asked.

I rolled my eyes and then decided to look over at him. He was as beautiful as the Southern California weather, and he couldn’t have looked less like Jackson. Even sitting down, I could tell that he was tall—at least six foot three. His pear-colored eyes glowed against his beach-bronzed skin. Although he might be intimidating to the average male, I didn’t get the sense that he was dangerous—at least not to me—even if he was twice my size.

“Whatever I’m buying,” I said, not trying to hide my best flirtatious smile.

Letting my guard down for a beautiful stranger for an hour was justifiable, especially after a sixth glass. We would flirt, I would forget about any residual guilt, and I would go home. I’d possibly even get a free drink. That was a respectable plan.

He grinned back. “Anthony,” he said, holding up a finger.

“The usual?” Anthony asked from the end of the bar.

The man nodded. He was a regular. He must live or work close by.

I frowned when Anthony took my glass instead of refilling it.

He shrugged, no apology in his eyes. “Told you it was your last one.”

In half a dozen pulls, the stranger knocked back enough cheap beer to be at least close to my level of intoxication. I was glad. I wouldn’t have to pretend to be sober, and his drink of choice told me he wasn’t fussy or trying to impress me. Or maybe he was just broke.

“Did you say I couldn’t buy you a drink because Anthony capped you or because you really wouldn’t let me?” he asked.

“Because I can buy my own drinks,” I said, albeit a bit slurred.

“Do you live around here?” he asked.

I peeked over at him. “Your stunted conversational skills are disappointing me by the second.”

He laughed out loud, throwing his head back. “Christ, woman. Where are you from? Not here.”

“Chicago. Just blew in. Boxes are still stacked in my living room.”

“I can relate,” he said, nodding in understanding while holding up his drink with respect. “I’ve made two cross-country moves in the last three years.”

“To where?”

“Here. Then, DC. Then, back.”

“Are you a politician or a lobbyist?” I asked with a smirk.

“Neither,” he said, his expression twisting into disgust. He took a swig of his beer. “What’s your name?” he asked.

“Not interested.”

“That’s a terrible name.”

I made a face.

He continued, “That explains the move. You’re running from a guy.”

I glared at him. He was beautiful, but he was also presumptuous—even if he was right. “And not looking for another one. Not a one-night stand, not a revenge screw, nothing. So, don’t waste your time or your money. I’m sure you can find a nice West Coast girl who would be more than happy to accept a drink from you.”