Cuffs - Cara Lockwood Page 0,20

as if for a cocktail menu.

“They don’t have a drink list,” she said. “But they’ve got what you see there.” She nodded to the bottles stacked behind the bar. “And what’s on tap.”

“What do you like?”

“Bone-crusher,” she said nodding at the silver skull atop the tap handle. “Best double IPA in town.”

Clint had seen them now. He looked surprised and, worse, worried. Fearful, even. Mags frowned. Well, she guessed when he played alpha in the bedroom, he was just faking it. He was scared of her. He looked like he might want to piss himself. The fear filled her with disdain. This was why she hated relationships—because everyone disappointed in the end.

He might not be sharing her bed, pretending to be the tough guy he clearly wasn’t, but surely her money was still good for a round. He’d cut his jet-black hair shorter than usual and was growing a goatee, a new addition since she’d seen him last. What was that? Two weeks ago? Three? She couldn’t remember, exactly, but she’d known it was before the weather had turned cold. He ambled up to them, then, wearing a bar towel over one shoulder and scowl.

“Mags,” he said, guarded. That fear in his eyes again. Coward. How did she ever let him into her bed to begin with? How could she not smell that fear on him?

“Clint,” she replied. “This is my friend Gael.”

Clint glanced at Gael as if he were a bug he wanted to crush under his boot. Gael didn’t seem the least bit intimidated, either. If he were annoyed that she’d taken him to the place where her friend with benefits worked, he sure didn’t show it. She would’ve guessed he would be the annoyingly territorial type, the kind who beat his own chest and told all the other gorillas he was the alpha, but Gael didn’t seem to operate like that. Interesting.

“Nice to meet you,” Gael said, holding out his hand. Clint reluctantly took it, and Gael shook it enthusiastically. Mags had to admire his confidence.

“You’re not going to start anything, are you, Mags?” Clint looked worried. It almost made Mags laugh. She shook her head, slowly.

“Nah. I just want a Bone-crusher.”

“Okay,” he said, not seeming to believe her. He glanced at Gael. “You?”

“The same,” he said. “And a shot of Jameson.”

Both Mags and Clint stared at Gael a beat. “Make it two,” Mags said, with a new appreciation for the suit.

Gael moved so that his knee brushed hers by the bar. She could feel an electric charge, even through her leggings, as the heat from his body touched hers. Man, she really was in trouble if some accidental footsie was getting her this wound up.

“So, that’s the Clint, huh?” Gael raised an eyebrow, as he watched the thick-shouldered bartender grab some clean pint glasses. She glanced at him, noticed he wasn’t afraid. Or the least bit intimidated. There it was: that quiet strength in him. She felt drawn to it.

“Yeah.” Mags shrugged. Clint wasn’t the best lay she’d ever had or the worst, but he was solidly in the satisfactory category. But he wasn’t nearly as handsome as Gael, or as confident, either, as it turned out.

“So...” Gael grinned a little bit. “You treating me like arm candy? Bringing me around to make him jealous?”

“What?” Mags whirled, shocked. “You can’t be serious. You’re not arm candy.” Though, looking at his dark, wavy, shampoo ad–ready hair, maybe she was wrong about that.

“Oh, sure I am.” Gael flashed his dimple at her, and she wasn’t sure if she wanted to kiss him or punch him. The man had no shortage of ego. It was ridiculous. “Should we fake make out? If we use tongue, that ought to make him jealous enough.”

“Stop it.” She gave him a sharp elbow. The idea was ridiculous. But then, wasn’t part of her kind of hoping that Clint would see she didn’t lose any time in moving on as well? There were other bars she could’ve gone to. Less convenient ones, but still. Mags watched as Clint filled their beer glasses, noting that he seemed to be trying not to listen in on their conversation, when he clearly was. Let the coward listen.

“Come on. I know when I’m being used.”

“Are you always this full of yourself?”

“No. Sometimes I eat steak. Then I’m full of that,” he deadpanned. God, he kept her off balance. A jokester one minute, a dom the next. But that strength was there, that immovability of his, there beneath it