“Friends call me Horny Harry. Want to know why?” He does a little giggle and puts his arm around my shoulders. Again.
I’ve been described as haughty a few times (I’m really not), but with my height of five ten, I do have a glorious glare. I use it now. “Look, I’m not interested, okay? You should go away.” I poke at his arm a few times until it slips off my shoulders.
His face reddens. “Hey now. You blinked at me.” He sounds like a petulant child as he points down at his shirt.
If his brains were leather, he wouldn’t have enough to saddle a June bug. I can practically hear my mama saying the words.
“Everyone blinks.” I stand. “Why can’t a girl just come to a barstool and have a drink—even if it isn’t a decent one? Huh? Is that so hard? Why can’t I just sit here and watch the crowd and look for hockey players? That’s a rhetorical question, by the way.”
He leers. “Whatever. My room is just upstairs. I have some beer in the fridge and condoms. Sounds good, right?” He nods his head toward the steps that lead to the upper level of the house. “Come on, babe.”
Babe.
BABE.
Bennett called me that and no one will ever again. It’s a promise to myself. I’m better than babe.
Picking up my purse from the bar, I cross the strap over my shirt.
He makes a pout. “Ah, don’t leave like that. We were just getting to know each other.” He moves as if to take my arm, but I give him a little push in the chest. Dude probably weighs about two fifty, and of course, it does no good.
“Are you cheating on me already?” The shrill tone comes from Pixie Girl. I guess she’s back from her pee break. With her hands on her hips, she sends a scathing look at Frat Boy and then turns it on me. “And you? What makes you think you can flirt with my man? Is that why you offered to watch the bar?”
Oh. My. God.
I shake my head at her. “No! This—this isn’t what you think. I’m not flirting—”
“Then why are you standing there with your fuck-me eyes on him?” She glares at me.
“There is no eye-fucking going on here!” I feel ridiculous even saying that.
She curls her lip. “You and your top-shelf tequila. Please.”
I inhale a deep, cleansing breath. Harry just grins at me, his gaze bouncing from me to his Pixie Girl. Obviously he’s enjoying the attention.
I swear her nose flares when she says, “Maybe it’s time you left—unless you want to regret it later.”
Is she going to drag me out to the parking lot and kick my butt if I don’t? How have I gotten myself into a chick fight when all I wanted to do was spy on the hockey player?
A few people around the bar stop what they’re doing and stare, and I blow out a breath, angry and maybe a little intimidated. I could have spooked Horny Harry the Frat Boy eventually—I mean, I’ve handled my fair share of leeches at Boobie Bungalow (with the help of a bouncer)—but toss in a catty jealous girlfriend and all bets are off. Women are vicious, and I like all my hair on my head, thank you very much.
A new song comes over the speakers and I feign interest, bobbing my head. “Wait? Is that 50 Cent’s “In da Club”? Yeah, it is.” Fake smile. “Sorry, guys, gotta go.” And I dart for the dance floor. My plan? Shake my ass all the way to the door and get the hell out of here.
The dance floor is a madhouse of bodies, and I boogie along with them, eyes locked on the exit. My purse gets shifted behind me during my exodus, resting on my butt as I push through the crowd. I don’t bother fixing it, but halfway to the door, there’s a tug on the strap that jerks my shoulder. Afraid it might be Pixie Girl ready to pluck my eyes out, I whip around with my fists clenched and raised—my mama didn’t raise no slouch—but it’s only a dancer with her arm tangled in my strap. “Sorry,” she calls out over the music, and I nod. I turn back around and run smack into a brick wall of muscle.
“Whoa there,” says the deep, husky voice.
Holy hockey jackpot.
It’s him.
5
Sugar
My head looks up…and up…and my eyes widen as I take in the broad shoulders, the thick lashes, and