Sugar on the Edge (Last Call #3)(12)

“Sure,” I tell her with a smile, waving my hand to catch Brody’s attention. I point at the woman and call out, “Shot of Patrón Silver.”

Can’t remember the woman’s name, but I can sure remember what she’s drinking.

She takes her fingertip and runs it down my forearm as it rests against the bar. “So, leaving any time soon?”

“Probably after another drink or so,” I tell her, my eyes straying down to the creamy swells of her breasts, which are plumped out over the top of some type of black, corset-like top she’s wearing.

“Want some company?” she asks coyly, but her eyes pin me with direct confidence.

My smile becomes calculated, because it’s clear what she’s asking. “I’d love some. Want to give me a ride home?”

“I’d like nothing better,” she says as she leans her face in toward me, nipping my ear with her teeth. “Come find me when you’re ready.”

Fuck yeah, game on.

Brody pushes the shot of tequila with a lime wedge on the rim of the glass toward the woman. She takes it, gives me a wink, and walks back over to the group of friends she had been hanging with.

Brody helps himself to another twenty laying before me for the cost of the tequila shot. “Keep the change,” I say as an afterthought.

He says, “Thanks.”

No biggie. I’m feeling super generous tonight, because looks like I’m about to get laid for the first time since I became a temporary U.S. resident.

“Can you call me a cab, Brody?” I hear from my left, and I don’t have to turn in my seat to recognize that voice. But when I do, Savannah is standing at the end of the bar, leaning casually against the swinging service door.

“Sure,” he calls back to her, and I watch as he picks up a phone beside the register to dial. When he hangs up, he says, “Be about ten minutes. Want anything?”

“Bottle of water,” she replies.

I stare at her, waiting for her to notice me. But she keeps her eyes pinned on Brody while he reaches down into a cooler and pulls out a bottle of water, twisting the cap off and setting it down before her. She tries to hand him a five-dollar bill but he turns away. “It’s on me.”

“Quit being an ass, Brody, and stop buying me stuff.”

“You’re cute when you’re angry,” is all he says as he walks away from her.

Savannah huffs but shoves the money back in her purse, keeping her gaze on Brody with a wistful sort of look in her eyes.

Understanding dawns on me. She has a thing for the bartender. Now isn’t that just f*cking sweet as can be? And this little exchange I just witnessed has only confirmed my initial impression of Savannah. Sure, she may be out at a bar late on a Friday night to have some fun with friends, but she’s still the insecure, withdrawn, and ‘too shy to make a move on a dude’ woman that I had originally taken her for. A total pushover in my opinion.

Whether she feels the weight of my stare or she knew I was sitting there the entire time, Savannah’s gaze slides over to me. The minute we make eye contact, her eyes dart back behind the bar, seeking to look anywhere but at me.

I’ll probably later blame it on the liquor swirling in my blood, but I suddenly feel the need to see how Savannah reacts to an unkind world. She is, after all, my muse, and I consider this more research than anything.

“Hello, Savannah,” I say, loud enough that I know she hears me.

Turning back to me, she offers a small smile and says, “Hello.”

Cutting my eyes briefly over to Brody, who is chatting with a customer at the other end of the bar, a rag thrown casually over his right shoulder, I nod my head toward him. “Boyfriend?”

“No,” she says quickly, shaking her head with a blush.

“Lover?”

“God, no,” she squeaks out. “Just a friend.”

Scooting my barstool over closer to where she’s standing, I lean toward her and ask, “Want him to be your lover?”

“What?”

“Lover,” I affirm with a low voice. “Someone who will f*ck you sweetly every night and whisper sweet nothings in your ear while he pumps away in between your legs.”

Savannah rears backward from me, face flaming red and indignation swimming in her eyes that I’d talk so crudely to her. I can’t help the grin that comes to my mouth because she reacted exactly as I figured. In fact, I need to memorize that look on her face right now because it’s exactly how her character should look when she first gets propositioned for a trick. All affronted and indignant, because it’s beyond the scope of the narrow walls within which she lives.

Taking a sip of Oban, I watch and wait to see what she’ll do. Running from the bar in tears is my first bet, and I’ve probably just lost my housecleaner, but I just couldn’t f*cking help myself.

What I don’t expect is the tiny flare of heat that enters her eyes, and quickly transforms into anger. Before I can even set my glass back down on the counter, Savannah takes two steps toward me and leans in close. “Brody is a dear friend of mine. He’s engaged and happily in love with another dear friend, and I’m happy for him being in love with Alyssa. You think you know something about me, but you don’t know shit, Mr. Cooke. And at the risk of losing my job with you, go f*ck yourself.”