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Sally sits up excitedly, feeling the new energy that’s coming off me.
“I’m going to go tell his dad what a douchebag his son is.”
“Oh, yeah, girl. That’s a perfect plan.”
The fact that she agrees so readily gives me a moment of pause. She isn’t exactly the person I take life advice from. But in the end, I shake it off.
Sally’s excitement is palpable as I stand and smooth my short, black dress down over my thighs.
“Wish me luck.”
“You don’t need luck. You’re a fucking knockout.”
I toss her a grateful smile and turn to make my way over to the bar.
The man in question is sitting alone with two empty seats on either side of him at the otherwise full bar. Like he’s someone to be feared.
He’s certainly a formidable presence. Even with his back to me, I can feel the power radiating from him. It could be the obvious strength hiding underneath those expensive looking clothes, but I think it’s more than that. He’s broody, as if shadows emanate from him in all directions.
I slide onto the tall, wooden chair directly to his left and lean on the bar, head tilted in his direction. “Hey.”
His head turns to me, eyes meeting mine directly.
I’m struck dumb by the intensity in those dark brown eyes, momentarily unable to breathe.
I watch, breath held, as his eyes drift down my body to where my elbows rest on the bar, and then briefly toward my legs and then back up to my lips. His expression is not what I’m used to seeing on the faces of men checking me out. If anything, I’d say the guy looks sad.
His eyes touch on mine briefly once more before he turns his full attention back to his drink. “Hey.”
The exchange is so unexpected that it takes me a second to process. My whole reason for coming over here vanishes as I sit beside this man who is definitely dealing with something heavier than whatever silly shit I’ve got going on.
“Are you okay?” I fully planned to start reading him the riot act about his playboy son, but now, I just can’t.
His face turns toward me again just enough for me to see one corner of his mouth tick up. I catch his eye for a split second.
“Yeah. I’m just having a hard week.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
He inhales deeply and lets it out before turning his head back to me. “You want to hear about my problems?”
I shrug.
I mean, the honest answer is no, I want to tell him about my problems, but the guy just looks so forlorn…and so fucking hot.
Like, so hot.
I can see from my vantage point that his cream dress shirt is unbuttoned enough to show off a patch of dark hair gracing his skin. His face is every bit the dashing hero I grew up fantasizing about, even more so than Ainsley. As a matter of fact, this guy looks like what you would get if you fed a picture of Ainsley into an AI generator and requested it turn him into a mafia boss/underwear model. Dark hair, dark eyes, and five o’clock shadow I have a feeling isn’t usual.
Shit, if this is what Ainsley is going to look like in twenty years, maybe I should reconsider giving up on him over one stupid pic.
“It doesn't look like you have anyone else to talk to.”
That earns me another sad smile. The man glances to his right and then back at me. “I suppose that’s true enough.”
“So, come on. What does the king of the island have on his mind that’s so bad it’s causing him to drink away his sorrows in a bar alone?”
His eyebrows lift at my insinuation that I know exactly who he is. “King of the island, huh?” His tone lightens as I apparently amuse him. I suppose it’s a step in the right direction.
