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The hum of the bar, the clink of glasses, the sounds of someone’s twenty-first happening in a corner all compete for attention. But I’m tuned into her. Isla. Her hair is in a ponytail that adds an air of youthful innocence to her. Her pretty brown eyes dance with amusement as a patron talks with her. When she walks by, I can see the freckles scattered across the bridge of her nose.
She smells like mouthwatering fruit, and she’s fresh-faced with only a touch of makeup to draw attention to those doe eyes of hers… as if she needs help capturing attention. She has it. I’m pretty sure she has the attention of everyone in the place, men and women alike.
“Isn’t this the perfect spot for a date?” The woman beside me says, leaning into my space. I resist the urge to lean away. I should be listening to her, nodding along as I pretend to hang on every word of whatever story she’s telling.
But I’m focused on Isla.
Isla catches my stare from across the room, and heat bolts through my gut. Her lips curve into a polite smile, a gesture that tells me I’m caught and I’ve been staring a little too long. But I’m not embarrassed that I’ve been staring, and I have no intention to look away.
I hold her gaze, watching her cheeks go pink and the way she rubs the back of her neck with one hand as if my attention is making her flustered. Good. I want her flustered, hot, uncomfortable, even.
My date's continuous stream of chatter skims the edge of my attention. Something about a vacation, or a pet. It doesn't matter, the sound of her voice fades back into a distant, irritating buzz like a fly that won’t quit.
“Do you even like red wine? Like, like it like it?” Her shrill voice demands validation that I don’t want to give. Red wine, white wine, we could drink water for all I care - that’s not why I’m here.
“Sure,” I say, dismissing her with a single word. My attention is still locked on Isla. The air between us crackles with an electricity that tingles along my skin, and judging by the way she runs a hand up her arm, she feels the static charge, too.
But she’s not looking at me anymore. She’s behind the bar, smiling at patrons, pouring drinks with an easy grace, and talking with the other guy behind the bar. Her mundane tasks shouldn’t be captivating, yet they are. She is.
“Or we could try something new, maybe a cocktail?” My date’s suggestion is tentative, as if she’s aware I’ve completely checked out of our date.
“Whatever you want,” I say. What I want is obvious, and it’s not sitting beside me, begging for attention I’m just not interested in giving.It’s standing behind that bar, serving drinks, accepting a shot from a patron, downing the drink and smiling as the guy lets out a celebratory shout.
And I keep watching her, feeling the deep heat of desire churning within me that demands that I make her mine.
Isla's gaze meets mine, then skitters away as she leans in to speak with her fellow bartender. I can’t hear what she says, but my jaw clenches as he chuckles at her words. Her giggle joins his and my knuckles itch to greet his face.
It's ridiculous, this possessive twist of my gut over a woman I’ve spoken a handful of words to. But every amusing interaction they have feels like a personal attack.
“What do you think about that?” I’d almost forgotten about my date, and when I turn toward her, I see the expectant look on her face. She’s begging me to be there with her, present in the moment, but I’m not here for her. I’m here for Isla, and this woman is just a placeholder to keep my bed warm until I devise a plan to win over the woman I actually want.
Still, I should say something—anything—to put her at ease, but no words come out. Instead, I let out a distracted grunt.
Her eyebrows slowly rise, a move I’m surprised she can make, since I assumed she’d be botoxed to the max. My silence makes it obvious that I’m not at all invested in the conversation… or her. I'm already calculating the risk, wondering how far I can push before she breaks, and how far I can pull it back when all I want to do is watch Isla.
“Interesting,” I say finally, the blow-off response not fooling either of us.
Isla slides a glass across the bar to another man. What would she do if I walked up to her and asked for her number to take her out sometime?
A smart girl would tell me to get lost. A polite girl would tell me no thank you. And an interested girl would agree. My chest tightens wondering which she’d do.
“Is everything okay?” My date's voice is softer now, filled with something like concern, as if she thinks I’m sick or upset rather than disinterested in her.
“Yeah,” I say, my gaze never leaving Isla. “I’m fine.”
But I'm not fine—not even close. Isla has me all tangled up in knots that I don’t know how to untie. I want her, more than I’ve wanted anyone in a long time.
“Are you even listening to me?” My date’s voice is a frustrated whisper as she begins to wind up.
I blink, tearing my attention from Isla with effort, only to find my gaze sliding back to Isla as she laughs softly at something another customer says. My jaw aches from the constant clench and release of watching her.
“Sorry,” I say, even though I’m not at all apologetic.
The way Isla’s cheeks flush pale pink when our eyes meet sends a jolt through me. She looks away, but I don’t.
My date lets out a frustrated sigh, planting an elbow on the table and putting her chin in her hand, clicking the nails of her other hand in an impatient rhythm.
I can't bring myself to care. Especially not when another man takes a seat at the bar, leaning in like Isla’s the center of his universe. He orders a drink, and Isla gives him that smile—the one that’s somehow professional and disarming. She tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear, an innocent gesture that sends a wave of possessiveness through me.
