tour (because, Beyoncé), but this was literally a whole new ball game.
I walked into the air-conditioned room and saw the incredible floor-to-ceiling glass wall with an amazing view of second base. I turned around as Rocco whispered something to a guy who’d come out with a spread of sports-watching snacks from a secret door behind the bar—because we had a bar. There were wings, chips, dips, and all kinds of other delicious-looking stuff.
“What exactly is your job title?”
He gave me a little grin, like he thought my saltiness was super cute. I’d almost overshared when we were in the car, and told him that he was really messing with my plan. But it was hard to look mad when a man that hot was being this nice. And Lord above, his ass. He was wearing jeans that were molded to his strong legs and a gray T-shirt that shouldn’t be as arousing as it was plastered to his massive chest. It was very hard not to stare.
I literally jumped when his voice startled me out of my very non-friendly or professional thoughts. “This suite doesn’t belong to Davidson’s. They just give us tickets so we can have stuff to do on the weekends when we’re on long assignments. Incentive for teams to stay in town. Hell of a lot cheaper than paying for flights back and forth, and also they like to promote a work-life balance.” He used air quotes for the last part, but then went on. “They do a good job of not making us work a lot of hours, and encourage us to unplug.”
Well, that was different. “That’s awesome. Honestly, that’s part of why I love Sturm’s. It’s been nice to work for a nonprofit that really looks after the employees. They’re sort of militant about self-care.”
We got into another one of the stare-offs that seemed to be our main form of communication. I wanted to ask him, just straight out, what was going through his head when he looked at me like that. It wasn’t even flirty or suggestive; he looked at me like I was code he just couldn’t crack.
The feeling was mutual. And also not the smartest headspace to be in. He was hot, yes. The thought of getting to see that tattoo live and in person definitely made me salivate, but I was not going there.
Resist. I had to resist. I gestured toward the bar. “Can I buy you a drink?”
He stopped short at my words and I realized they might’ve sounded a little more suggestive then I intended. What resulted was Rocco Quinn’s most lethal weapon yet: an unguarded smile. I wondered what it would be like to have that smile be only mine. That the ones everyone else got were just a shadow compared to with Rocco Quinn’s “Julia” smile.
And why did I need to go there always? To the place where I fantasized about being someone’s one and only. That’s the bullshit that kept me tied to Matt for so long. I didn’t need some man’s besotted gaze to make me happy. I was the shit without all that.
“How about that drink? What’s your poison?” Why the hell was I being so damn loud and talking like a character in a noir film?
He must’ve seen something in my face that wiped the smile off his. I wasn’t going to feel bad. This was for the best.
“Sure. If you’re buying.”
Yeah, the lightness from before was gone. So I, of course, doubled down on acting like a lunatic.
“Open bar is the best bar.” I was yelling now.
Someone save my ass from myself.
This time Rocco’s lips tipped up, and I couldn’t blame him. If I was him I’d be laughing at me too.
I walked over to the bartender, who, judging from the way he was looking at me, also thought I was not right in the head. “Hook me up, dude,” I said, pointing at the knob with the beer I wanted.
“Do I need to card you?”
Oh? Was that a bit of flirting I detected from the bartender? Now that I looked closely, he was seriously hot.
This was the distraction I needed. I wasn’t looking for a man, but I could certainly play a little. A bit of flirtatious banter with Mr. Hottie Mixologist would at least temporarily take my mind off Rocco. I propped myself on a stool, ready to engage. “If you insist.” I reached into my clutch to fish out my ID when Rocco came up beside me.