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The bartender smirks between us, likely hoping for a double tip.
“If I can’t buy you a drink, it’s the least I can do.” Rowan tips back the clear liquid in his glass, and I watch the way his throat bobs when he swallows. There’s something sexy about it. The ice clinks against the glass when he sets it on the bar.
I tuck the twenty back into my purse. “Unnecessary, but thank you.”
The bartender slides my wineglass across the bar, and I grab hold of the stem.
“Are you on the bride or groom’s side?” Rowan asks.
A man steps between us at the bar and looks out the corner of his eye at Rowan but doesn’t say anything about recognizing him. Then he glances my way, noticing that we’re turned toward one another. “Oh, sorry, did I step in the middle of something?”
“Yes,” Rowan says at the same time I say, “No.”
“Oh.” The guy’s cheeks grow pink. “Then I’ll just…” He steps back, looks right and left, and walks to the other side of me. “Stand here, I guess.” His gaze moves to Rowan as if asking his permission.
The new guy is so close to me on the other side, it forces me to breach the distance I kept between Rowan and me on purpose.
“Come with me.” Rowan nods toward one of the high-top tables scattered near the back wall.
“Excuse me?” I sip my wine, staying put.
The bartender snickers quietly, Rowan’s narrowed gaze darting to him.
Stepping closer to me, Rowan lowers his head, his lips millimeters from my ear. “Please.”
Tendrils of my hair move from his breath, and damn, treacherous goose bumps trail up my spine, but I somehow manage to abstain from a full-body shiver. He draws back, moving away from me, raising his eyebrows, asking me again what move I’m going to make.
Rowan turns his body, giving me a pathway to the table, and I see that the bartender has filled Rowan’s drink without him asking. I guess when you’re tipping like he is, and you’re who he is, you don’t have to do a lot of asking.
Is that why he didn’t think he had to ask me to step over to a table with him? A man like him is probably used to getting what he wants.
It’s as if I can feel the bartender and the man behind me waiting to see what I’ll decide. But let’s be serious. Would I really turn down Rowan Landry’s invitation to talk privately?
I stand there, pretending to weigh my options for a moment, before I take my wine and walk past Rowan. Once I’m at the table, I pivot to face him, and he’s already placed his drink on the table. I stare at the vibrant green lime at the bottom of the glass so I don’t have to look into his eyes.
“So, bride or groom?” he asks again.
“Guest.”
He chuckles. A low, soft rumble in his throat that pulls a smile from me and makes me wonder if that’s what he might sound like in bed.
Being the sole object of his attention is unnerving, so I sip my wine to do anything but concentrate on him. “I was invited by the bride. You?” I swallow another gulp of wine, and I catch him staring at the glass, which is now almost empty.
“Guest.”
I reward him with a half grin. “Not the groom?”
He chuckles again as if the idea is absurd. A girl could get addicted to earning that warm laugh. “No.”
His affirmation is typical of guys like him. As if he’d burn the altar down before stepping up to it.
We stand silently assessing each other for a few moments. Surely cocktail hour will end soon.
“I’ve known him since high school,” he says.
“My mom designed her dress.”
“I just reconnected with him when I moved to Chicago.”
