Arrogant Bastard - Julie Capulet Page 0,13

been watching me for a while. His drink is empty. I walk over to him. “What can I get you?” He’s dark-haired and good-looking—like, insanely good-looking—in a smug, over the top kind of way. The kind of way that guarantees he could and probably has banged every woman in sight for most of his adult life. I can’t tell if the woman sitting next to him is his date or not. If she is, he’s giving her the cold shoulder and this annoys me.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he asks me. So she must not be his date.

Arrogant doesn’t even scratch the surface with this one. This guy could probably give a master class on the subject. “Thank you, but no. I don’t drink when I’m working.” I glance at the blond woman, who’s staring at the guy like he’s the answer to all her prayers. “But she looks like she might want one,” I suggest.

“All right, then,” he says, without missing a beat. His voice is deep and has a smoky husk to it that’s almost comically sexy. No doubt women fall at his feet. Luckily, I won’t be one of them. I learned my lesson a long time ago. Guys like this one—the “alphas,” who every woman in the room watches and covets and wishes was hers, are the ones who will destroy your life. I should know. It happened to me once and I honestly don’t know if I could survive a second round. So I go out of my way to avoid smug jerks like this one, especially ones whose collar is barely dry from the wrath of the last woman he scorned. When you work in a bar you learn the signs. “Put her drink on my tab. I’ll have another Jack Daniels on ice. And when your shift ends, I’ll buy you whatever you want.”

He’s outrageously sure of himself. Most people I deal with on a daily basis have threads of insecurity to their overall manner, but this guy doesn’t. And neither do I. My mother once told me she’s never met anyone as brave as I am. Not that it’s helped me all that much, but for some reason this guy reminds me of that quality in myself. Like I’ll need all the bravery I can muster when he’s around. Which is a weird thing to contemplate, but there it is.

“My shift never ends.” I’m trying hard not to be rude to him, but my emotional scars are lighting up and my heartbeat is racing. I add three ice cubes to a glass and pour his whiskey.

He cocks his head slightly. His eyes are an unusual shade of aqua, rimmed by dark, dense lashes, quietly challenging me. There’s a rough, masculine glamor that clings to him like he’s been sprinkled with angel dust. He’s extraordinary, one of nature’s chosen ones.

I have to hand it to him, he’s bringing his A game to the tomcat-on-the-prowl playbook. Unfortunately, I already know how the story ends.

With fear. With not being able to escape. With the realization that you’ve just made the most painful mistake of your life. With the kind of regret that digs in and won’t let go.

Damn. It’s been a while since my old damages have felt so close to the surface. I take a deep breath. I’m good now, I remind myself. I’m over all that.

“All work and no play is bad for the soul,” he purrs. “Everyone’s shift ends eventually.”

After almost a year of owning a bar, I can make small talk with a rock if need be. As for this guy, I’ll give him the time of day because it’s the polite thing to do. But I hope he doesn’t hang around for long. He’s making me uneasy.

I exhale slowly, finding my resilience, like I’ve trained myself to do through meditation and yoga. To prepare myself and keep myself steady in situations like this one.

But it’s written all over him: he’s one of those rare people who has an animal power, you can feel it radiating off of him. Everyone in the room is aware of him, like he’s a man-eating lion surveying his territory. In his presence, you feel yourself making a choice, to either make yourself available to him or get the hell out of his way. For my own sanity, I’m going with option two. “I work here and live here, so it all kind of blurs into one.”

“What time does this place close?” He glances around.