Foreplay (The Ivy Chronicles #1)(7)

Before I could answer, Gina sent me a withering look and then turned back to him. She waved her money in his face. “Excuse me. We were here first.”

Sighing, he looked back down at them, his expression a blend of annoyance and boredom. “Then order already.”

She tossed her dark hair over her shoulder. “Forget it. The service here sucks. We’ll go somewhere else.” Turning, they shoved past me.

He didn’t even watch them depart. With his stare fixed on me, he shrugged one shoulder and flashed me a half smile that made my stomach lurch. I stepped up to the bar, trying to look confident. Like I hung out in bars all the time.

He braced his hands on the edge of the bar, leaning forward slightly. “Now what can I get for you?” His tone was decidedly friendlier than when he spoke to the other girls, and heat swarmed my face. I’m sure it was just because we knew each other—in a way—but it still made me feel special. Singled out.

I lowered my gaze, eyeing his arms. The muscles bunched. A tattoo peeked out from beneath his sleeve and crawled down his tanned bicep and forearm, stopping at his wrist. It looked like some kind of intricate feathered wing. I would have liked to study it further, but I was already conscious that I was ogling him, and I still hadn’t answered his question.

“Um. A pitcher of Sam Adams.” I knew Emerson liked microbrews.

“ID?”

“Oh.” I fumbled for the fake ID Emerson made me get last year for the one time she dragged me to Freemont’s.

He glanced at it and back to my face. A hint of a smile played about his lips. “Twenty-four?”

I nodded, but my face went from warm to scalding.

“Guess you just have one of those baby faces.” He didn’t wait for a reply. Still smiling faintly, he stepped away.

My eyes were drawn to his broad back. His T-shirt hugged the muscled expanse. He wore a pair of well-worn jeans, and the view from the back was almost as nice as the front. Suddenly the bar felt oppressively hot.

He set the full pitcher and a stack of cups in front of me.

“Thanks.” I handed him the money. He took it and moved to the cash register.

In the moments he was gone, I tried to think of something to say. Something cute and engaging. Anything that might draw out our conversation. I didn’t let myself consider why. Or that suddenly I wasn’t so averse to the idea of talking to him. Flirting with him. Flirting.

My throat closed up, panicking at the prospect. How did Emerson do it? She made flirting look so effortless.

He returned with my change. “Thanks,” I murmured, dropping it into the tip jar.

“Take care.”

I looked up but he was already gone, moving on to the next customer. I hesitated, staring after him. Shaking my head, I reminded myself not to ogle. Tucking the cups under one arm, I held the pitcher with two hands and dove back into the throng. Only I didn’t make it two steps before someone bumped me. The pitcher flew from my hands, somersaulting amid bodies, sloshing beer everywhere. People cried out, wiping ineffectually at their doused clothing.

“Sorry!” I apologized to their glaring faces, grateful that I, at least, had somehow managed to stay dry.

Bending, I retrieved the plastic pitcher from the plank floor just as my pocket started to buzz multiple times in quick succession.

I dug it out of my pocket and read the text.


Emerson: Found table. Still at bar? Did u see him?

Rolling my eyes, I tucked the empty pitcher under my arm and texted her back.


Me: Yes. Yes

Sighing, I squeezed back to the front of the bar and set the pitcher down on the surface. My gaze searched for him. He was serving customers a little way down the bar now, bending his lean body over the counter to better hear orders. I waited until he caught my gaze. He sent me a nod of acknowledgment. I nodded back.

My phone vibrated in my hand again. I glanced down.


Emerson: U r taking 4ever. Better be making out w/him 2 take this long

I snorted and was in the process of typing back to her when he arrived in front of me. He nodded at the pitcher. “That was quick.”

“Yeah.” I hastily slid my phone back in my pocket, almost as if I feared him seeing the texts about him. I smiled wanly. “I didn’t make it three feet.”

“Ah.” He nodded in understanding, bracing his hands on the bar top again. The action stretched his shirt taut over his chest and pulled it against his shoulders. “I’ll let you in on a secret. Nice girls get eaten alive in places like this.”

I stared at him for a moment, his words sinking in. I moistened my lips, reaching deep inside me where some reservoir of female instincts dwelled. “Maybe I’m not that nice.”

He laughed then, a short, deep sound that sent ripples eddying through me. My face flushed. I smiled hesitantly, unsure if his laughter was good or bad.

“Sweetheart, you’ve got ‘nice girl’ written all over you.”

The “sweetheart” made my stomach flutter. Until the rest of his words sank in. You’ve got “nice girl” written all over you. I frowned. Nice girls didn’t win the guy. Hunter’s ex-girlfriend flashed across my mind. No one would accuse her of being a nice girl. She was sexy, with sleek, surfer-blond hair and designer clothes that showed off her body. Sophisticated. Not your girl-next-door type at all. Not like me.