Billion Dollar Stranger - Stephanie Brother Page 0,3
company. Somehow, drinking in public seems less tragic than sipping tiny bottles in the privacy of my room.
There are three other people in the bar: the barman, who smiled a little too broadly when I approached to order my drink, and two disheveled looking men with worn-out briefcases engaged in an in-depth discussion. With the opportunities for people watching so limited, I return to my phone. After a couple of minutes of idle browsing, I look around and find myself gazing directly into the greenest eyes I’ve ever seen.
The man they belong to is walking from the bar toward a table near mine, holding a short glass of amber-colored liquid, but as our eyes connect, he pauses momentarily and then continues in my direction. His gaze stays fixed to mine until he’s standing over me, his impressive, tall frame casting me in shadow.
“Are you alone?” he asks.
Alone. It’s a word I feel from my tiny toes to the tips of my straight brown hair. It has been that way for so long. Even when I was with Jonathan, I never felt as though he truly knew me. There was always a part of me that felt untouched and unnoticed. I don’t this tell this stranger any of that, though. “Yes.” One small word said more breathlessly that I feel comfortable with. I should say something else, something to break the tension, but the feeling of his eyes on me is so intense that I momentarily lose the ability to think.
What could I say to steer him back to the table he’d first intended to occupy? What could I say to make it evident that I don’t want him to join me? I’m in no mood for conversation.
My hesitation and that one word are enough for him to think it’s okay to sit opposite me in the booth and rest his glass on the table. A presumptuous move, but one I don’t immediately object to. As Brits, we’re not taught how to deal with situations like this. Politeness comes above everything else. I guess if he’s a weirdo, I can finish my drink and leave — no big deal.
“I hate drinking alone,” he says, without the warming smile I expect from a stranger in this kind of situation. The smile that says, “Hey, I’m a nice friendly person, and you’re safe having a conversation with me.” Instead, he leans back, and I feel one of his ankles press against mine as he stretches his legs beneath the table. My first instinct is to move, but his action seems so deliberate, and his eyes burn with an intent that makes me feel embarrassed to pull away. The stranger tips his head to the side, still holding me with his serious green gaze.
In the seven years that I’ve been dating, I’ve never felt the kind of instant attraction that drives women to drop their underwear. I mean, I’ve never understood how people can skip the “getting to know you” phase that progresses neatly through the bases over an acceptable length of time. I’m not sure what it is about him that makes heat spread across my chest and up my neck. Maybe it’s his seriousness or the languid way he moves. Perhaps it’s his confidence or the lack of mine at that moment, but under his scrutiny, I feel my mouth go dry, and my thighs press together involuntarily. He must feel it because his eyes widen just a little.
The stranger’s hair is sandy brown, styled with a looseness that makes it seem as though red-fingernailed women have caressed it into perfection. His skin is lightly tanned across his straight nose and cheekbones. In a sharp gray suit that clings to his broad shoulders and biceps, he is the archetypal hot executive, but my eyes are drawn to his mouth, which is full and still pressed into a serious line.
If someone asked me to describe my perfect man, I would say dark hair, dark eyes, and a friendly smile. But somehow, this stranger with his cat-like gaze and raw magnetism is everything that makes my heart flutter and my palms sweat.
“You’re English,” he says – a statement rather than a question – and I nod, still unable to construct a coherent sentence. “Here on business?” He raises his glass to his lips and swallows half the drink. Those lips, the flash of the inside of his mouth, the swipe of his tongue, make me woozy.
“Yes.” The whispery sound of my voice surprises me,