The Sweet Talker (Boston Hawks Hockey #1) - Gina Azzi Page 0,80
all of your support.
XO,
Gina
Broken Lies
Zoe
Two truths and a lie.
Moments ago, Eli Holt, famous Hollywood heartthrob, walked into Shooters Pub and discarded his winter coat and scarf in a booth.
My best friend and co-worker, Charlie, may pass out from excitement.
Meh. Holt doesn’t really do it for me.
Liar.
Eli Holt does it for every legally aged vagina in the universe, and a significant number of penises too.
Holt is larger than life, his presence sucking the oxygen straight from the pub. Not just because he’s the sexiest man to ever grace this bar — which he is — but because he’s a bona fide celebrity hailing from the same streets of our nondescript Chicago suburb.
Even though I don’t follow the celebrity news printed in Gossip or care about who’s dating who in a circle I don’t understand, I’d have to be living under a rock to overlook Holt’s rugged good looks and dedication to his craft.
He turns toward me, setting off in the direction of the bar, and tugs some of his merino wool sweater up on his forearms. I nearly drool; hard muscle, corded veins, strong hands…where the hell did my chill disappear to?
Green eyes latch onto mine, amiable yet aloof, both present and not. Still, my heart stutters in my chest as his eyes slowly peruse my face, like he’s trying to gauge my reaction to him, maybe wondering if I recognize him. Thick, brown hair, cut close to his scalp on the sides and left longer on top, is perfectly styled. Several days of stubble coat his steel jawline, adding an edginess that speaks to the playboy persona celebrated in the tabloids.
He saunters closer, his bulging biceps and strong back pulling at the merino wool, stretching it. Appreciation causes the corners of my mouth to tick up as I drink in his traps and lats the way an art collector salivates over a Basquiat. This man is a rare commodity, a contemporary Adonis, a perfect specimen of male anatomy.
“Hey, can I get a beer?” Fred, one of the regulars, shakes his empty pint glass.
“Not now, Fred,” Charlie answers, never dragging her eyes away from the sex god who approaches the bar, commanding the space around him like a drill sergeant.
Heads swivel in his direction. While a logical part of my brain acknowledges it’s because he’s famous, the nerves and energy dancing around my stomach also know it’s because he looks like every bad decision every woman’s been tempted to make. At least once.
Green eyes pierce me to my core, causing Charlie to jab me in the ribs with her index finger. “He’s going to talk to you,” she whisper-hisses.
He stops in front of me, dropping his elbows to the bar. “Hey. A bucket of Heinekens and three shots of your top tequila.” His voice is low and rumbly, tugging on the strings that hold my pelvic floor in place.
Jeez Louise.
A full mouth parts, revealing straight, blindingly white teeth. A nose that’s been broken at least once somehow adds more character to his face instead of detracting from his rugged good looks. Full eyebrows, a teeny cleft in his chin, a barely noticeable scar above the right corner of his mouth.
“Hey babe. Did you hear me?” He snaps his fingers and my mouth drops open.
Shocked, amused, and a tiny bit embarrassed, I laugh out, “Did you just snap at me?”
“Just getting your attention.”
I roll my eyes. “You have the attention of everyone in here.”
He shrugs, a playful gleam ringing his irises. “We can take a selfie if you want, so you can study it later in your bedroom.”
This time, laughter shoots from my mouth in surprise. Is this guy for real? “Ah, now you had to go and ruin it.”
He frowns, a small dip appearing between his eyebrows. “Ruin what?”
“The fantasy playing out in my head.” I joke easily, falling back into my role as bartender: engaging, playful, flippant. Grabbing three shot glasses with my right hand and swinging to pull down a bottle of top-shelf tequila with my left, I line up the glasses as I glance at Holt, “You killed it.”
One side of his mouth lifts in amusement, his eyes crinkling. “That was never my intention. Now, I’ll have to figure out how to get back in your good graces.”
I shake my head. “What’s the saying about a first impression? You only get one?”
His smile widens.
“That was your one shot to try to pick me up,” I continue, unabashedly enjoying our banter as I grab a shaker. “Chilled?”