He leans back in his chair with a smirk on his face, confidence radiating from him. "I grabbed my roommate's jacket instead of mine. And realized on my walk over here those were in the pocket." He shrugs. "Lucky coincidence."
"So you figured you’d just hand them to me?"
"I like to rescue beautiful women from creeps." He grins, and I feel an unexpected flutter in my stomach. "I apologize for the theatrics, but guys like that usually only back off when they think they're encroaching on another man's territory."
"Well, thank you for the rescue, but I could have handled it."
"I have no doubt." He pockets the underwear. "Just thought you might appreciate a little backup."
His eyes hold mine—deep sea blue, framed by lashes that are way too long to be a man’s. A dimple appears in his left cheek when he smiles. I feel myself responding to his charm despite my usual wariness of overconfident men.
"Can I buy you a drink? To apologize for the unorthodox introduction." He gestures to my empty glass. "Just a thank-you for letting me play the hero."
I should say no. But something about this stranger makes me want to stay.
"One drink," I agree. "But you haven’t told me your name yet."
He extends his hand. "Nate."
I shake his hand and feel a jolt of electricity. "Elena."
Nate signals the bartender with two fingers. "Two Don Julio shots, please. The añejo." He turns back to me with that easy smile that makes something low in my belly tighten. "Unless you prefer something else?" The question hangs between us,weighted with double meaning. I know I should walk away, retreat to the safety of my room. Instead, I meet his gaze directly.
"Tequila works. But just one. I have an early morning tomorrow."
"Don't we all?" He leans in just a little, close enough that I catch the delicious scent he’s wearing. It’s clean and masculine but subtle.
The bartender delivers two shot glasses filled with a golden liquid. Nate pushes one toward me.
"To chance encounters." He lifts his glass and smiles. Damn, that dimple…
"To heroes with questionable items in their pockets." I clink my glass against his.
We throw back the shots in unison. The tequila burns a clean path down my throat, warming me from within. I’m not usually a shot-drinker, but something about tonight—about Nate—makes me want to step outside my carefully constructed boundaries.
"So," he says, setting down his empty glass. "Not from here?"
"What makes you say that?" I watch his face, the way his eyes light up with mischief.
"You have that 'just visiting' look." He leans in slightly. "Like you're seeing everything with fresh eyes."
"Maybe I'm just observant."
"Maybe." He signals for another round. "Or maybe you're running from something."
I arch a brow. "Pretty presumptuous for someone I met ten minutes ago."
"Am I wrong?" His confidence should irritate me but, for some reason, it doesn't.
"I'm not running." I accept the second shot when it arrives, knowing that this is a huge mistake. "Returning, actually."
"Ah." He nods as if this confirms a theory.
Our fingers brush as we clink glasses again, and I feel that same spark of electricity. "What about you? Just passing through?"
"Let's say I'm between destinations." He throws back his shot with practiced ease. "Enjoying the journey."
I study him more carefully. Strong jawline, slight stubble, a small scar near his left eyebrow. He looks vaguely familiar, but I can't place where I might know him from. Maybe he has one of those faces that reminds me of someone else. Or maybe the tequila is already blurring my typically sharp memory.
