“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’s potent.
My stomach tightens when he leans close as if he might embrace me, his massive frame shadowing the small table. But he merely sticks his nose to my glass and takes a sniff. With a nod, he straightens and turns toward the bar.
I do not admire his ass as he walks away. Okay, maybe a little. Because damn.
He returns soon enough, another Manhattan in one hand, a bottled water in the other. A memory hits me—of how he usually drinks 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 bench seat 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 to say no. So I nod. 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. Not that 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’ve helped out 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 some damn 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.
Flushed, and cursing myself an idiot for putting on a display, I yank the stem from the cherry and eat the fruit with brisk efficiency before taking a hasty sip of my cocktail. “So, Dex,” I say quickly—as if I didn’t just try to call attention to my mouth. “It’s been a while.”
He blinks, his gaze dragging from my lips to my eyes. “Ethan.”
“What?”
“My name,” he says. “It’s Ethan.” The corners of his eyes crinkle. “Ethan Dexter.”
“Ah.” I take another sip. “So I’m not allowed to call you Dex? That only apply to friends or something?”
He doesn’t laugh or fidget, just keeps his gaze steady on my face. “Didn’t mean it as an insult. You can call me Dex, if you like.”
Before I can ask him why he’d insisted on Ethan if that’s the case, he speaks again. “I haven’t seen you since the wedding.”
Gray and Ivy’s wedding. Now that was a drunken blur. Good times.
Truly, I don’t drink often. But when I do… Ahem. Which is why I try to avoid reaching the point of maximum craziness.
Memories of the wedding are a strain, but hazy edges of them remind me that I danced with Gray’s boys—Dex included. Ivy danced too, which is always a show. My sister, who I love more than anyone on Earth, is a horrible, scary dancer. So mainly I’d concentrated on helping Gray run interference, making sure she didn’t accidentally clock anyone on the head while she convulsed—danced.
“I remember you mostly holding one of the walls up all night,” I tell Dex now. He’d danced a few songs, sure, then had taken a bottled water and leaned against the wall to watch the rest of us.
He grips his current bottled water. It’s too dark to see what his tattoos are, but I can tell they’re colorful, vintage looking. And he has more of them than he did a year ago.
“Sometimes it’s more fun to watch.” His gaze doesn’t move from my face, but it feels like it does. My breasts swell heavy against my bra, more so when he continues. “You ripped your dress off and flung it in a tree.”
A flush works over my cheeks. It was a tropical resort. And I’d wanted to swim. Everyone did. I lean forward. “Are you saying you liked watching me strip, Ethan Dexter?”
His chuckle is a gentle rumble. “I’m saying it was memorable.” He glances down, those long lashes hiding his eyes. “And entertaining.”
“I aim to please.” Crossing one leg over the other, I study him. I’m enjoying myself, which is a surprise because I never pegged Dex as much of a talker. “What are you doing in San Francisco? I don’t recall you playing for Gray’s team.”
“I have a week off, and so does Gray…” His broad shoulders lift in a shrug. “I thought I’d visit him and Ivy.”
“Wait. What?” A bad thought rises in my head, and I find myself leaning toward him. “You’re staying with them too?”
He nods, wariness creeping over his features.
“Did they send you here to babysit me?” I snap. I cannot believe he just happens to be at the same club. Not after both Gray and Ivy had complained about me going out on my own tonight.
“Yes and no.” Dex takes a long pull of his water. “Yes, they said you were here. Yes, they were worried. But I happen to like this band, so I thought I’d come listen and say hello in the process.”
“Oh, how convenient,” I drawl, sitting back against the wall.
“Isn’t it,” he agrees in a dry voice.
I snort, the temptation to chuck my cherry stem at him riding high. I don’t think he’ll care if I do. Dex seems too unflappable to be offended by flying fruit bits.
“You don’t have to stay,” I tell him. “You can inform the wardens that you saw me, and I was fine, and be on your way.”
He doesn’t flinch. “I want to sit with you.”
Okay. Right. The big football player wants to listen to moody music all night. Sure.
My expression must be skeptical because he gives me a half smile and hands me his phone. “Check my music selection.”
He doesn’t have a password—not smart—so it’s easy to look. Flunk, Goldfrapp, Massive Attack, Portishead, Groove Armada, even some Morcheeba… He’s got a veritable trip-hop library going.
I grin up at him. “You know, before this, I’d have taken you for a hard rock, or maybe even a bluegrass fan.”
“It’s the beard, isn’t it,” he asks.
“And the man-bun.”
He laughs, a short rumble of sound. “Want me to let it down?”
Yes. Maybe.
“Not necessary. Man-buns are hot. I blame Jason Momoa. There was only so much watching him bang Khaleesi the female population could take before they wanted their own Khal Drogo.”
Shit. I really don’t know what the hell I’m doing. Because it sounds a lot like flirting to me. Instinct tells me flirting with Ethan Dexter isn’t something to do lightly. And there’s the fact that I don’t go for athletes. At all. I don’t care how fit they are. Or how confident. I don’t like sports. Football bores me. Oh, I know tons about the sport—kind of impossible not to in my family—but I don’t want to pretend that I care when I’d rather talk about other things.
Dex’s eyes crinkle again, and he turns toward me, leaning an elbow on the table. “Doesn’t Momoa have a beard?”
I wave my hand. “Who has time to look at his beard when his muscles are on display?”
I most certainly do not look at Dex’s phenomenal arms.
“So your stance on beards is?” His gaze so strong I feel it in my toes.
My breathing picks up. “Don’t particularly like them.”
It’s the truth. And yet I can’t help but look at his. It’s dark, framing his mouth, which should be a turnoff for me. Only it draws all my attention there. To the shape of his mouth—the upper lip a gentle curve, the lower lip fuller, almost a pout. There’s something slightly illicit about the whole effect.