“I’m not one of Duporth’s entourage,” I say, in case that’s who he thinks I am. “I’m Mav?—”
“I know who you are.”
The bite in his voice shocks me more than the fact that this guy—this very cute, very angry guy—knows who I am.
“Have we met?”
He scoffs. “No, we haven’t. But I’ve heard all about the almighty Bensons.”
He eyes me up and down, and his lips twist as if what he’s seeing doesn’t please him, laying it on a little too thick. I’m not saying I’m God’s gift or anything, but I’m tall, in good shape, and these designer black Saint Laurent jeans make my ass lookgood.
Before I can say anything or figure out how to angle myself to give the guy a better glimpse of said fine ass, he spins on his heel and storms off. When he reaches a beat-up Ford F-150 and is about to hop in, I call out, “You can’t drive.”
He hangs his head like he’s just realized he’s stepped in a fresh pile of gooey horse shit, turns to me, and demands, “And why the fuck not?”
“Because you’re drunk.”
He scrunches his face. “What?”
“I saw you stumbling down the sidewalk. You were at a bar. Just putting two and two together here, dude.”
“Well,dude.” He spits the word out condescendingly and takes a few steps toward me. “I’m not drunk.”
“Really?”
He inches forward, lifting his chin. “Yeah.”
It’s entirely possible he’s telling the truth. I mean, I was in the bar, too, and I wasn’t drinking. But the more we talk, the closer he gets to me. And I’m curious to see just how close I can get him to come.
“And what if I don’t believe you?”
“Are you always this infuriating?”
I prop my hands on my hips and flash a grin. “Yes.”
He throws his head back on a long groan, and my eyes laser in on the long column of his throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing away like I might actually be the most infuriating person he’s ever met.
His boots hit the ground hard as he charges toward me, stopping barely a few inches from my chest. “You want me to prove I haven’t been drinking?”
“Yeah,” I rasp, my throat suddenly dry.
“Fine.” He cups his hands on each side of my face, tugs me down toward him—holy shit, is he going to kiss me?—and huffs out a slow, long, deep breath. It’s warm against my skin, faintly laced with coffee and something a little sweet, like cinnamon.
And definitely no trace of alcohol.
Still framing my face, he stares straight into my eyes. “There. You happy now?”
Happy?
I’m a lot of things right now—bewildered, slightly dumbfounded, turned on as all hell—but happy ain’t one of them. I feel like I got ripped off.
Ignoring the disappointment curdling in my chest, I say, “Fine, I believe you. You weren’t drinking.”
Maybe I say it with a bit too much authority, like someone who knows a thing or two about masking alcohol breath. Or maybe the guy is simply pissed off at me, a stranger, forcing him to take an impromptu sobriety test. Whatever it is, he’s staring at me so hard with those piercing emerald eyes it makes me want to do something crazy, like grabhisface and get the kiss he teased but never delivered.
I take a step back and shove my hands into my pockets. I’m feeling unsteady.
Rattled.
