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The bartender raises his brow. “You sure about that?”
“Yes,” I reply with an enthusiastic grin. Clearing my throat, I attempt to pull out my best Irish accent. “Just to top off the evening. Thanks, sir!”
The guy beside me hides his smirk behind the giant glass. I turn to face him, making it obvious his smirk is annoying me. Ignoring me, he keeps his eyes focused on the wall-mounted television. From the side, you can see his sharp jawline covered with a slight stubble. His hair, a darkish blond, is slightly longer, giving him a casual look. It’s always the hot ones who are assholes.
I fold my arms across my body in defiance. “What’s so funny?”
“Your attempt at an Irish accent.”
His accent is strong. I may be drunk, but he sounds distinctively Australian.
Either way, it doesn’t matter, he’s an asshole for laughing at me. A hot asshole.
“Well, your attempt at an Australian accent is just as bad.”
He cocks his head to the side, shaking it as his lips press into an annoying smirk again. Ignoring me, he tightens his grip around the tall glass, drinking the remnants of his beer before ordering another.
“Typical American girl,” he mutters.
I stand taller, practically stumbling, until he catches me around my waist, annoyed at my clumsy fall. His hands are gripping onto me tight, and I ignore whatever the hell is happening between my legs from a simple touch.
“Excuse me?” I pull his hands off me, staring into his deep green eyes. “That’s very presumptuous of you.”
“That’s a big word for someone intoxicated.”
“Intoxicated is a big word for someone who is a jerk.”
“Oh, so now I’m the jerk? I thought I was the hot asshole?”
Holy crap! Did I say those words out loud? I knew it was a stupid idea to go out. Not only have I made a fool out of myself, I am now starting to feel incredibly ill and lightheaded.
Just power through, one more drink, and you’ll be fine.
“Bartender,” I yell impatiently. “My beer?”
Pulling a glass from the tray, he tilts the nozzle of the tap and pours me a beer, placing it right in front of me. I pull out my purse, only for the asshole to throw a twenty on the countertop.
“It’s on me,” he tells the bartender.
“Um… no.” I take the twenty, shoving it into his shirt pocket. His hard chest lays flat beneath my palm, and for some unknown reason, I take my time pulling away. “I can pay my own way. I am an independent woman, and no man will tell me what to do.”
Thank you, Tiffany.
“Calm down, okay? I just want to see you chug a beer. In fact, I’ll place all the money in my wallet you can’t finish that schooner without throwing up all over those sexy shoes of yours.”
I scan my shoes, noticing him eyeing them at the same time.
“Arrogant much? You’re on! Show me what you got.”
He pulls out two hundred dollars from his wallet, placing it flat on the bench.
Damn! Now I have to prove him wrong.
Something about him irritates me. Perhaps it’s his arrogance or the way he expects me to cave like a girl. He has no clue who I am, so I can be anyone right now. And anyone is the girl who chugs the whole glass without hurling on the sidewalk.
Either way, I have no choice but to finish. I won’t back down.
Not to this arrogant jerk.
