frowned and a little crease formed in his brow. “Why?”
“Why you want to stay here… with me.” I pointed in the direction of the bar. “I’ll tell Paul you saved me, which you did, so thank you. You’re off the hook.”
He sat then, leaning forward, so his forearms rested on his thighs. The corded muscles were hard to ignore, and I had to wonder what the rest of the tattoo looked like, partially hidden beneath his snap shirt. All of his attention was once again squarely on me, as if there wasn’t anyone else he wanted to talk to, to look at. To be with. “Maybe I don’t want to be off the hook.”
Oh. I couldn’t look away, couldn’t do anything but realize he wanted to sit with me—me!—and I felt something shift inside. Something good. “Oh.”
“I brought you another drink.”
He held a highball glass, filled with an icy concoction with two lime wedges floating on top. Condensation trickled down the sides.
“Thanks, but I was drinking—”
“Water,” he cut in, finishing my sentence and placing the glass on the low table in front of us. His dark eyes once again watched me closely, calmly. It was as if he could shut out all the other patrons of the restaurant, the noise of dishes being stacked, even the subtle music, and give me every ounce of his attention.
“Yes,” I admitted, my eyes widening. How did he— “You’ve been watching me.”
Paul gave this guy his seal of approval, but everyone who heard their neighbor was an axe murderer swore they had no idea after a gruesome murder. I didn’t see an axe although there was no question by his solid, hard, amazing body he could hurt someone without one. I felt wary and nervous now… in a completely different way. I didn’t want him to be a creep.
He leaned back in his chair and held up his hands in front of him. “Oh, hey, I don’t want to see that pretty smile go away. Don’t worry, I’m not trying to pick you up.”
My spine stiffened, and I felt my cheeks heat. “Of course not.”
Why would he waste his time picking me up when there was the bevy of easy women inside? Surely, he just needed to crook a finger, and they’d come to him panting. He was… really, really attractive. Intense. Bob/Bill was pretty handsome, and he was a creep. This guy was more. He had presence. Confidence. He dripped testosterone from his pores, and the way I was practically panting over him, no doubt pheromones as well. He wasn’t working it here—he didn’t have to. He just… was.
He grinned, and that changed his entire demeanor. Relaxed by my sarcasm, he leaned back in his chair, elbows on the armrests. I, on the other hand, sat ramrod straight and ready to bolt.
“Shit, that was really bad, wasn’t it?” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck as he winced. “Insulting even. Sorry. I have to admit, you make me a little nervous.”
My brain stalled. “Me?” Both my eyebrows went up. “I make you nervous? You’re so far out of my league,” I admitted with a frown. Now, he’d leave.
He looked down at his feet then back at me. “Yeah, I know.” His voice was quiet, almost resigned.
“Wait.” I shook my head, held up my hand. “You think I’m… no way. Have you seen some of the women here tonight? They’re so… young.”
His dark eyes raked over me, from my—most likely—wayward hair to the tips of my polished toes and back. “And you're old?” He didn't give me time to respond. “Trust me, I’m right where I want to be.”
Oh. I couldn’t help the little internal sigh at his words.
He leaned forward once again, rasped a hand over his chiseled jaw. He'd probably shaved this morning, but he needed to do so again. Not that I minded. I wanted to run my fingers over his whiskers and see if they were soft or prickly. “Let me start over. Okay?”
I cocked my head and noticed his chagrined expression. I nodded, curious.
“I’m Gray, Paul’s personal trainer.”
“Trainer? I thought…”
Paul’s trainer? Besides the snap shirt, or beneath it, he looked like one. Fit. But fit like he lived that way, not just by pumping iron. His arms were corded with muscle, his hands rugged, fingers long. With the scar and tattoos, he looked downright dangerous, more like a fighter than a simple trainer. Perhaps he’d competed in the past. Boxing? Rodeo? He looked like he could toss bales