“You gotta celebrate that shit!” Anita flashes him a wide white smile. “First one’s on the house.”
“Celebrate,” the man sighs. “Sure. I guess that’s more upbeat than drinking to the sorrow of trying to start my own business.”
“So poetic,” someone says, and then I realize it’s me. Me. I said those words. And what do you know . . . I’m still talking! “Verytroubled emo rock star.”
And the man turns towards me so I get the full brunt of a violent green gaze, its intensity utterly undimmed by the thick flutter of black lashes, the angled arch of a dark brow. Holy God, he’s gorgeous.
“Did you just call me a . . .troubled emo rock star?” His eyebrows curve in confusion, and his eyes trail lazily over my cheekbone, down my throat, in a way that makes my skin feel like it’s caught fire.
“Did I?” I ask, almost genuine in the question becauseyipesdid I really say that? But—I wince. “Yeah, no, I did.”
“I’ve never been called that before.” His lips tick upward with the faintest hint of emotion—amusement? Let’s hope, ’cause old Olli’s mouth is just getting started.
“Am I wrong?” Ilet my own gaze drop to his knuckles on the countertop, but it’s more because I’m likely to start stammering or drooling or maybe pass out if I keep looking into those green pools of intensity. “You kinda got that emo bad-boi thing going.”
“Right.” His face hardens, voice hardens—amusement giving way to irritation. “Tattoos and scars, yeah, that’s all most people see.”
“Course they do.” I cross my arms, lean onto the bar. “Nobody looks very deep. But this is avibemore than a look.”
His brows lift in surprise. “Oh, it’s a vibe?”
“Absolutely.” I grin. “Aguy who likes good musicvibe.”
One of his brows arches—oh, he’s that kind. The one-brow-up judgy-look kind. “And how do you definegood music?”
Why do I always think that eyebrow thing is so hot?
Anita chooses that moment to slide my salad in front of me. “Some greens for our new friend.”
“Yes, perfect,” I say, because Hottie lowers that judgy gaze to my plate. And frankly, my pile of leaves smothered in cheese and dressing is not super sexy. Time to redirect those eyes. “Greens. Because I’m watching my dainty figure.”
There.
He looks. Of course he looks. Because my figure is not dainty by any stretch of the imagination. I’m a professional hockey player—not too many players who could be described as dainty.
I bite down on a grin as he studies, well, you know . . . me. My clearly athletic physique. One I’ve worked on—a lot—because being at the top of my game has always been the most important aspect of my life.
He returns to his drink. Drains the whole thing in a shot. Damn. “So, you were going to tell me whatgood musicmeans to you.”
His words surprise me, that he’s continuing the conversation. Frankly, the guy’s got straight-as-hell vibes, despite his little eye-fucking slip.
“Emo, obviously.” I chew through a bite of salad. “Metal. Hard rock.”
“Really?” He half turns towards me, both his brows lifted in consternation all over again.
I suppress my grin before it gets any wider. Yeah, I love shocking people with my music tastes. I slide my phone out of my pocket, open up Pandora. “Top stations: Today’s Hard Rock, Metalcore, Heavy Metal, Emo—”
“Meditation Radio?” He leans in to peer over my shoulder. “One of those things is not like the others.”
His fingers angle towards my phone, and I swipe it out of reach. Laughing. Tsk-ing. “You saw nothing.”
“Salad and meditation radio?” He straightens on his stool, shaking his head. “For a second, I thought you had good taste.”
“That sounds awfully judgy.” I toss my phone to him so I can shovel in more food. MyFavoritesplaylist stretches across the screen like an olive branch in the form of a carefully curated collection of tunes. “For a guy with knuckle tattoos.”
He swipes up said olive branch, and my eyes flit back to his fingers: the ink, the scabs—the rough calluses beneath them. Not his first fight, not by a long shot. He’s got tattoos on the backs of each hand, too, just a line of script in the space between thumb and forefinger. And then full sleeves, starting at the wrists.
“As you can see,” I watch him scroll through my playlist, “I like most things metal, metalcore, hard rock, and yes, emo.”
