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Our gazes meet, and it’s as if I’ve been hit in the chest with a bolt of lightning. My heart slams into my ribcage. My breath hitches. Then he smirks, and indignation follows on the heels of the heavy lust that's stuck its claws into me. What is he doing here? How dare he follow me here? Can I not wallow in self-pity for a few seconds without this tall, dark, sexy stranger, once again, sweeping into my life like he owns it? I need to take back control.
"Gimme that." I swipe at the shot glass he holds in his hand, overbalance, and fall into him. I hit his arm—his very strong, hard arm—and it feels like I’ve hit the side of a building. But only if the side of a building were to be covered in warm muscles that ripple and move like there’s a current of electricity running underneath.
Oh wait, that’s me. That’s the zip of sensations running up my arm, to my heart, and down to my core. My chest hurts. My belly quivers. The bud between my pussy lips threatens to bloom. Nope. Not happening. Not now. Not after how he embarrassed me in front of everyone. I push away from him and right myself on my stool. "Give me. My. Drink," I choke out.
"Not happening." There’s a finality in his voice, a resoluteness that slices through the thoughts in my head. It pushes something in me to bend and obey, a-n-d…
No. Absolutely not. I set my jaw, turn to the bartender and scowl. "Another drink, please."
"You will not give her another drink." My ex’s father pulls out his wallet and throws a few notes on the counter.
The bartender seems taken aback. He looks from Quentin to me, then back at Quentin. A look of comprehension comes over his features and he scoops up the notes.
“Hey!” I try to get his attention, but he’s already moved away.
Fine, I can help myself. I reach over and grab the bottle of Jose from under the counter, but Quentin snatches it from me.
“Gimme that!” I attempt to grab it.
He holds the bottle out of reach. “You’re leaving.”
“No, I’m not,” I argue.
“Yes, you are,” he says in a slow, patient voice that brooks no argument, but which also makes me feel like I'm younger than him. And I am younger than him. In comparison to his age and experience, I'm a novice. Damn him for highlighting our age gap. For bringing home that he's the father of my now-ex, and it’s a pipe dream to think we could ever have anything when it's forbidden and all wrong.
“You can’t tell me what to do,” I seethe.
"Sure I can." He nods slowly.
Anger suffuses my guts, floods my chest, fills my blood, and spurts out through the pores of my skin. "Who do you think you are?" I snarl.
"Your-husband-to-be.”
4
Quentin
"What the… WHAT?" She throws back her head and laughs. Then straightens, all mirth wiped from her face. "You have some gall, saying that to my face."
I allow my lips to twitch. "As I recall, you didn’t seem averse to the idea of marrying me when I proposed to you."
She scoffs, “And if you recall, I said I couldn’t say yes to you because I didn’t know you.”
“And you should know, your father is not opposed to this marriage.” I place the bottle of tequila on the other side of the counter and away from her.
“Excuse me?” Her eyes flash. “You have some nerve bringing my father into this conversation.”
“I’m old-fashioned that way.”
“Don't you mean old?” Her words are laced with sarcasm.
Dammit, she's right. I continue as if I didn’t hear that. “I wanted to get his blessings on our union.”
“Excuse me?” She gapes.
“I would have chased right after you, but your father deserved to know my intentions were honorable. He gave his blessing, you know?”
She snaps her mouth shut. Stubbornness settles across her features. “It doesn’t make a difference. I’m not marrying you.” She folds her arms across her chest.
