“Pretty name for a pretty girl.”
She rolls her eyes. She thinks it’s a line and calls me out on my bullshit. Even though, for once, it’s not.
“It’s not a line.” I lean into her. “It’s the truth.”
She just stares back at me, and I know she’s sizing me up. She may be blonde, but she’s no bimbo.
“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Ryan,” she repeats my name tantalizingly. It does crazy things to my insides. Mac drops our drinks in front of us and winks. Alana looks down at her rum and Coke garnished with a lime as if she’s Eve and it’s a shiny red apple tempting her to bite. I pick up my gin and tonic and nudge her arm. “It’s fine. It’s just one.”
Her eyes flash. “Famous last words.” She picks up her cup and clinks it with mine.
“To serendipity,” I proclaim, and she smiles just as the rotating lights shine on her gorgeous face.
“Where are you from?” I have to know every single little detail about her.
“Colts Neck,” she answers with the straw flirtatiously resting on her lips.
“Rich girl.” I comment.
“Is that a problem?” she counters.
“No.”You could be poor, dirty, and homeless, and I’d still love you.
“What about you?” She leans over the bar, her skin brushing against mine, causing every single one of my cells to stand at attention.
“Neptune.”
“Pretty close.”
“Only demographically,” I retort.
“None of that crap matters to me,” she spits, taking me by surprise.
“Good to know.” I slide closer, touching my body to hers. She looks up at me with those reddish-brown eyes, and all I can think about is kissing her. Right here. Right now. The desire is almost drowning me.
“What?” she asks.
“What, what?” I answer.
“You’re staring.”
“You’re beautiful.” The words just spill right out of my mouth.
“You’re a cornball, but thank you.” She tucks some hair behind her ear demurely.
I know I’m grinning like an idiot, but I just can’t help it. It’s like I’m the plug, and she’s the socket. Her energy is lighting me up.
“Need another round?” Mac’s voice startles us both.
“Yes.” I push my cup toward him as he stares at me with mischievous green eyes. A minute or two later he returns with more drinks. Then he drops four shot glasses in front of us and pours some red liquid into them. “I made too much; it’s extra,” he claims with a scheming grin.
“What’s that?” Alana worries, wrinkling her nose. The facial expression is adorable.
“Red Death,” Mac informs her, as the last drop drips out of the metal mixing cup.
“Sounds killer,” she quips.
Mac smiles at me. “I like this one,” he approves, and then goes to help another customer.