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“You’re on.”
The bartender pours the first round. We lift our glasses and clink the short stubby containers. He slams his liquor, sucks on the lime, and squints at the sour taste.
“Whew. That’s a good one. Your turn.”
I reach back to my college days and take the entire rim into my mouth, holding my head back, allowing the alcohol to trail down my throat. The only time I use my hand is to remove the empty vessel. I don’t even bite the lime.
“Wow, impressive,” he says.
“Thank you. No reason we can’t have a little fun while being serious. So, who gets first question?”
“Ladies first, of course.”
“Okay. What’s your angle?”
“What do you mean?”
“You seem like you are trying to accomplish something. Obtain a goal.”
“I am.”
“What is it? If I may ask.”
The look of deep thought on his face gives me the feeling it’s a serious aspiration.
“I don’t want to say. You may try to derail me.” He smiles and takes his shot. “Okay, my turn. Why are you single?”
I expected a question about my work performance or how did I get so good at my job? Or maybe what are my objectives? But nothing so personal. “How do you know I’m single?” I counter.
“For starters, it’s a Friday night and you’re here in a bar with me. You haven’t once picked up your phone to check for messages or missed calls, and your watch hasn’t flashed anything either.”
I feel a bit awkward he knows so much about me, but I come up with a deflection. “Why are you noticing these things? Are you like obsessed with me or something?”
“Maybe,” he replies as he takes another shot.
“Well, why are you here then? Don’t you have a girlfriend or friends at home waiting on you?” I try my damndest to sound tough, but his single-word answer has me shook a little. What the fuck he means, maybe?
“I don’t have a girlfriend or friends, as you say. I had one, but she didn’t keep me intrigued, and our lives were on a different course.”
“Oh, I see. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“You didn’t. I volunteered.”
We both take another hit of tequila, and the in-house DJ changes the song to Breathe by Shania Twain.
“Oh, wow. I haven’t heard this song in a while,” I say, bobbing my head along to the tune.
“My turn,” he says, bringing my attention back to him. “Would you like to dance?”
Okay, shit has become awkward as hell. He stands and takes my hand into his, and we move out to the designated dance area. Suddenly my senses are alive. I work with Lucas Weathers and have for the past two years. Never have I noticed his height puts him about six inches above me, even with my heels on. Or he smells like sweet sex on a king-sized bed with two thousand five hundred thread count sheets. Or his arms around my waist feel like they belong there. Our bodies swing natural, and I lose myself in his eyes.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?”
“You haven’t told me to fuck off or not to touch you.”
He looks at me and grins, but I turn my head to break the small, but very real trance. Lucas Weathers, tall, dark-brown hair, with piercing gray eyes, an athletic build, and a sexy smile.
