Foreplay (The Ivy Chronicles #1)(12)

I glanced down. The jeans I wore belonged to      Georgia. They were too tight, but Emerson said that was the whole point. You’ve got the perfect curves. Show them off. The      blouse was Georgia’s, too. Various shades of orange and yellow. Very bohemian in      style and flouncy. Emerson vowed that it went great with my hair. It was      wide-necked, and every time I pulled it up over one shoulder, it slipped down      the other one. Again, the whole point, according to Emerson.

As we inched toward the bar, Emerson shoved me in      front of her. There were only three people working the counter, and we made      certain to approach the side he was working.

I watched as he poured beer into a pitcher,      admiring the flex of his bicep. His gaze lifted and scanned the bar, the way I’d      noticed him do last night. Surveying, assessing the crowd. Maybe for trouble?      Those pale blue eyes passed over me for a split second before jerking back.

He smiled crookedly. “Hey, it’s Nice Girl. How’s it      going?”

“Nice girl?” Emerson hissed in my ear. “Okay,      clearly you did not tell me everything about last night if he’s already given      you a nickname!”

I elbowed her, unsure how to respond to his      greeting. I smiled. “Hi.”

He handed off the pitcher, collected the money, and      turned to me. “What can I get you?”

I ordered two longnecks. He glanced at Emerson.      “ID?”

I watched her as she dug in her purse and pulled      out her fake ID. When I looked back up it was to catch him looking at me. He      looked away, giving her ID a cursory scan before moving to fetch our drinks.

“So hot,” Emerson muttered near my ear as he bent      to grab them from the back chest. “And he was eyeing you. Did you see that?”

I shook my head, unconvinced, but my heart beat a      hard rhythm in my chest.

“Slip him your number.”

My gaze swung to her. “What? Just like that?”

“Well, you’ll know if he’s interested by his      reaction. Maybe he’ll call. Or he won’t. Either way, you can get this thing off      the ground or move on to someone more receptive.”

I bit my lip, contemplating. The only problem was      that I had decided it would be him. He would be my test subject. If he wasn’t      receptive I didn’t feel like moving on—I didn’t want      to. And where did that leave me?

Sighing, Emerson dug around in her purse.

“What are you doing?” I demanded, looking in his      direction and confirming he was heading back our way.

Shaking her head, she pulled out an eyeliner pencil      and snatched a thin square napkin off the stack sitting on the bar. Lightning      fast, she scrawled my name and number.

I felt my eyes bulge. “Stop! No!” My hand dove for      her arm, but she angled herself away from me, standing on her tiptoes and      stretching out her arm.

“Here you go,” she called just as my fingers      clamped down on her wrist.

“Em, no!”

Too late. I watched as long, masculine fingers took      the napkin from her. My gaze followed that hand up to the bartender as he set      our drinks down single-handedly. Bile rose up my throat.

I heard Emerson’s voice beside me as though from      far away. “This is her number.”

Her. Me. The girl with      the face as red as a tomato.

His gaze moved from the napkin to me. Those silvery      blue eyes fixed on me. He flicked the napkin in my direction. “You want me to      have this?”

He waited, his expression blank. The ball was in my      court. Without giving me the slightest indication of whether he even wanted my      number, he was asking me what I wanted.

I stammered out the words. “Uh, n-yes. Well, sure.      Whatever.”

Lame. I felt like a thirteen-year-old girl. My face      burned.

“She wants you to have it,” Emerson insisted from      beside me.

If possible my face grew hotter. He leaned forward,      setting his elbows on the bar, his gaze fastened on me with searing intensity.      “Are you giving me this?”

Apparently whatever      wasn’t going to work for him.

The air ceased to flow in and out of my lungs. I      felt myself nod dumbly. Emerson elbowed me discreetly. “Yes,” finally spilled      from my lips.

He straightened. Without another word, he slipped      the napkin into his pocket, took the money that Emerson handed him for our      drinks, and turned away to another customer.