Old Ink (Get Ink'd #3) - Ali Lyda Page 0,22
pointed across the bar to a table of women who were giggling and trying not to be obvious about looking at us. They were not doing a great job.
“It’s my birthday,” she said, batting those eyelashes more. “Want to give me a present?”
“My birthday is this coming Thursday,” I replied. “Let me buy you a drink before I have to take my friends home.”
Her shiny lips pouted. “I hoped you’d take me home.”
I had to admire a woman bold enough to ask for what she wanted—even if it wasn’t anything I’d ever want. I gave her a soft smile to make the letdown less harsh.
“Carefully sculpted hair, tight and fashionable clothing, and only here with guys—” I arched a knowing eyebrow at her before nodding at my body in a ‘what can you do?’ way.
Her mouth made an “o” as she figured it out. “Gotcha. I’m not your type.” She laughed again and touched my shoulder. “Well, it was worth a shot.”
“That’s a pun,” I remarked, and her nose wrinkled in confusion. I pointed to a shot glass. “You said ‘worth a shot,’ and I’m going to buy you a birthday drink. Get it?”
She rolled her eyes but it was clearly for show. “It’s a shame you’re gay,” she said, but she let the bartender come over and take her order, adding it to my tab. When she had her drink in hand, we clinked our glasses.
“Happy birthday!” we said to each other at the same time. She downed her shot, and then she left, wading through the crowd to her table of friends. I had to admit—she had a nice ass and was dressed in a way that suggested she knew it.
Oh, well. Her attempt had been flattering, for sure. I’d dated a few women in college, just to see what it would be like, but ultimately they didn’t quite do for me what men did. Especially what one particular man did. I sighed into my glass and finished the club soda in one gulp, wishing for a moment it was something stronger.
Working with Reagan was proving to be a challenge.
It was the mixed signals, really. Reagan clearly found me attractive—I’d catch him looking at me sometimes, his gaze hot and intense, and I could make him blush now, which was a heady feeling. But each time I thought I was feeling something shift between us, he pulled away again and got awkward. So stiff. He was still quite intent on keeping a wall between us, despite my doing what he’d said. I’d gone off, I’d experienced things, and now I was back and Reagan still wouldn’t give me the time of day as anything other than his employee.
Maybe he was seeing something I wasn’t, some bit of immaturity or incompatibility that I’d missed. The thought bothered me, a seed that my anxiety was more than happy to nurture.
“Why do you look so gloomy?” a deep, masculine voice said from behind me.
I turned to see an attractive man next to me. He was older, possibly his late thirties or early forties. Like Reagan, his temples were peppered with silver. But unlike Reagan, this man was clean-cut and dressed in designer clothes. He was close enough that I caught a whiff of his cologne and it, too, spoke of money.
“I’m not gloomy,” I countered, “Just thinking about a problem at work.”
“Ah,” he said. “Where do you work?”
“Get Ink’d, the tattoo shop—”
His eyes widened and I saw that they were a rich chocolate brown. “From the TV show?”
“That’s the one. I’m not on it because I was underage when I started working there, and then I left for school. But I’m home for the summer.”
“You’re still in school? You look older. Maybe it’s your confidence—but it’s why I couldn’t stop looking at you.” He leaned closer. “You are insanely sexy. You know that, right?”
It was good the lights of the bar were low because my cheeks felt like they were on fire.
“I’m Channing,” I said, holding out my hand. The man shook it, his hand warm and his grip strong.
“Trevor,” he said. “It’s nice to meet you, Channing.”
My name rolled off his tongue smoothly—and I might have only been drinking club soda, but I felt a little dizzy from his attention. And… he was still holding my hand.
“So, uh, Trevor.” I cleared my throat and let go of the shake, hoping he didn’t see the tremble of my hand. “What do you do?”
“I’m an intellectual property lawyer,” he replied casually. “It