First off, he’s huge, as in built like a brick house, with shoulders so wide I’m fairly certain I could perch on one of them and have room to spare. He’s slouched in his chair, so I don’tknow how tall he is, but I’m thinking he’s at least six foot four or more, which would make him over a foot taller than me. I hate feeling tiny; I get that enough already without standing next to a super-tall man.
And he has a beard. Not a wild, bushy one, but thick and full, framing the square edge of his jaw. It’s kind of hot. Evenso, I am not into beards. I like smooth skin, dimples—a boyish look.
Nothing is boyish about this dude. He’s a strange mix of lumbersexual and pure, broody male. His hair is pulled into a knotat the back of his head, samurai-style, which highlights the sharp crests of his cheeks and the blade of his nose.
He might not be my type, but his eyes are gorgeous. I have no idea what color they are, but they’re deep-set beneath strong,dark brows. And even from here, his thick lashes are visible, almost feminine in their length. God, those eyes are beautiful.And powerful. I feel his stare between my legs like a slow, hot stroke.
He stares at me like he knows me. Like I should know him too. Weirdly, heisfamiliar. But my mind is muzzy with one too many cocktails to figure out why.
Apparently, he gets this because the corner of his wide, lush mouth twitches as if I amuse him. Or maybe it’s because I’msitting here staring back at him.
He’s a cheeky one, isn’t he? Just as blatant in his appraisal.
I give him The Glare, raising one brow in the same way my dad does when he’s displeased. Having been on the receiving endof that look, I know it’s effective. On most people. This guy? His amusement grows. Though he only smiles with his eyes andlifts a brow as if to mock me.
And then it hits me: that quietly amused, slightly contemplative expression; I’ve seen it before. I’ve seenhimbefore. I do know him. He’s Gray’s friend and old college teammate.
As if he reads my thoughts, he gives me a slow nod of hello.
I find myself laughing. At myself. He wasn’t checking me out at all. He was waiting for me to recognize him. My fuzzy brain searches for a name.
Dex. He’s Dex.
I return his nod, inclining my chin.
He rises. Up. Up. Up. Yep. Tall as a tree.
I remember that he now plays center in the NFL. And though a lot of centers sport a big barrel belly, Dex doesn’t. No, he’sjust pure, hard muscle. All of it visible beneath the black tee and faded jeans he’s wearing. All of it moving with the naturalgrace of a professional athlete as he strides toward me.
“Fiona Mackenzie.” His voice is low, steady and kind.
I don’t know why I thinkkind,but it sticks in my head and relaxes me in a way I ordinarily wouldn’t if some guy I barely knew approached me when I wason my own in a club.
“Hi, Dex. Sorry it took me a minute. I’m usually quicker than that.” I nod at the chair in front of me. “Care to join me?”
He glances at my nearly empty glass. “Want another drink first?”
“Yeah. Thanks.” If only to have something to do with my hands. Because, while he doesn’t threaten me, he has a presence that’spotent.
My stomach tightens when he leans close as if he might embrace me, his massive frame shadowing the small table. But he merelysticks his nose to my glass and takes a sniff. With a nod, he straightens and turns toward the bar.
I donotadmire his ass as he walks away. Okay, maybe a little. Becausedamn. He returns soon enough, another Manhattan in one hand, a bottled water in the other. A memory hits me—of how he usuallydrinks water, almost never any liquor.
Before he can sit, a girl comes up to our table, her eyes pleading.
“Are you using this chair?” She puts a hand on the only chair at the table. The other side is pulled up against the benchseat I’m using that runs along the wall. Technically, Dex could sit next to me.
We all are clearly aware of this. The girl looks between us as if to drive this point home. It would be petulant for me tosay yes. So I shake my head. And she whisks it away before I can change my mind.
That amused look doesn’t leave Dex as he settles next to me, his thigh close enough to mine that I feel his body heat. Notthat I think he’s doing this on purpose—he’s just that big, and the space is just that small.
Smiling a bit, I take a sip of my drink. “You knew I was drinking a Manhattan based on smell alone?”
Dex sets his water on the table, calling attention to the tattoo sleeves he has on both arms. “My uncle owns a bar. I helpedout over the years.” He glances at my glass. “That and the cherry gave it away.”
And it’s like my brain turns off, because I pull that cherry out of my drink and put it between my lips to suck it. Like somedamn porn star. His gaze snaps to my mouth, and his eyes narrow.
Damn, but I feel it again. That slow, hot stroke between my legs. This guy makes me wet with just one look.
