“What can I get you?” the bartender asks as I step up and refocus on the task at hand.
“A rum and Coke, please, and a glass of red wine. Something dry, if you have it. Nothing too…” I pause, embarrassed to use the phrase Tabitha often does without a shred of the self-consciousness that seems to plague me, “aggressively cheerful.”
The bartender chuckles, apparently understanding Tabitha’s wine philosophy perfectly. “Lime wedge in that rum and Coke?”
“Please.” I lean against the bar and draw a deep breath, finally relaxing now that a drink is on the horizon.
A minute later, as I’m composing a list of topics, besides my single status and the sad state of my manuscript, to talk about at dinner, the boat’s engine kicks up a notch. Or ten. A grinding sound reverberates through the deck as we unmoor from the dock and the propellers whir to life.
The boat sways from side to side, and the large vessel’s sudden change in momentum catches me off guard. My feet, already precarious in heels, slide out from beneath me.
I throw out a hand to catch myself, but my fingertips slip on the curved edge of the polished bar. Suddenly I’m careening sideways, directly into the solid warmth of the man in the pink shirt, whose barely worn fashion sneakers provide enough tread to ensure he’s sure-footed. And not at all off balance like me.
“Whoa there, sweetheart.” Strong hands steady my hips before I completely embarrass myself by taking us both down in a tangle of limbs. But it’s the deep voice, all smooth warmth and dangerous promises, that makes my pulse skip.
I look up, and immediately wish I could disappear into the deck below. It’s pink shirt man and he’s devastating. Thick lashes frame green-blue sea-glass eyes, and an amused smile features twin dimples that transform his handsome face into something absolutely lethal.
I’m in trouble. Not the kind of trouble that involves actual danger, although that might be preferable at the moment. No, this kind of trouble involves a racing pulse and the complete abandonment of rational thought.
Just my luck.
Chapter two
Leah
Ishould extract myself from this man’s clutch. Put a reasonable amount of space between us, and thank this stranger politely before retreating to the safety of my friends upstairs. Instead, I’m frozen in place, studying his smile and wondering how often it’s gotten him into trouble versus out of it.
My rescuer is gorgeous in an effortless, sun-kissed way. A man who’s certainly never had to wonder if a woman finds him irresistible, because the answer is always a resounding yes.
My whole body hums with the kind of awareness I try to write into my meet-cutes. Because only in fiction do guys this magnetic date bookstore clerks who consider staying up past ten with a new release a wild Friday night.
“Sea legs take practice. Though, if you’re going to fall for someone tonight, I’m glad it was me.”
Heat floods my cheeks as I scramble to find my footing, hyperaware of how his hands send heat waves through my dress. “I think you meant ‘fall on’ not—”
“Oh, no. I meant ‘for,’” he confirms with a wink that should be illegal in at least twelve states.
I would laugh off the ridiculous suggestion, but instead, I stand frozen, like a deer in headlights, having completely forgotten how to form words.
“You wear that sash well,” he continues, his gaze raking over me in a way that makes my skin tingle. “It’s just my luck to catch a birthday girl.”
The compliment jolts me back to reality. Right. The ridiculous sash. The surprise party. Surely, this gorgeous specimen, who must workout as if it’s his full-time job, is just being polite to the awkward woman who’s celebrating tonight.
I step back, smoothing my dress and adjusting the sash. “Thank you for the catch,” I manage, aiming for polite but distant. “Though, I should clarify my birthday is technically tomorrow, so your luck might be slightly premature.”
“I’ve been accused of a lot of things, but premature isn’t one of them, honey.”
I said his luck was premature, not him. But the way he twisted my words—and delivered them in a voice fit for an audiobook narrator reading for a dirty-talking hero—distracts me enough that I don't point out his mistake. Plus, when I look up, the devil grins as if he knows exactly what he’s doing.
“Is that so?” I offer instead, my tone dry as I glance toward the bartender, calculating how long until my drinks are ready.
But instead of taking the hint, the stranger’s grin widens. “Would I lie to a gorgeous woman who’s practically my birthday buddy?”
Birthday buddy? My eyebrows fly to my hairline. This has to be some kind of routine. A well-practiced approach he uses on unsuspecting women. “Birthday buddy, hmm? That seems awfullyconvenient.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“I believe it’s a go-to pickup line you’ve used before. Like your birthday is whatever day suits the situation.”
