face.
He hated it.
Was it terrible that she loved how much he hated it? She soaked up the barely disguised loathing in Tony’s expression, and she let herself acknowledge how dangerous his arrival was.
It
meant
something that he’d come back. His arrival was a declaration, and it gave her so much lift—such anticipatory excitement—that she wanted to crawl into a corner and hide.
You can’t fix this
, her fear whispered.
Neither of you knows how to fix this
.
But here he was.
Here he was, and he smelled like Tony, and he looked tired and a little rumpled and a whole lot good. So maybe he knew how. Maybe they
could
.
“That’s … different,” he said.
“Indeed.”
She sipped at hers. It tasted like licorice and ass.
She’d only ordered it because she remembered reading an article once that said absinthe wasn’t available in the United States. Some vague danger in the way it was produced that alarmed only Americans. She liked the idea of drinking such a forbidden, evil substance. She liked how ugly it was, how smoky and green.
“I’m Steve,” he said, and stuck out his hand.
She smiled.
She didn’t mean to. It just happened.
Steve
.
He was playing. He’d flown here for her—it must have been for her—and now he was pretending to be some guy she didn’t know. A Steve.
It was cute.
She’d never been able to resist Tony being cute.
“Jennifer.”
She shook his hand. No wedding ring.
“Nice to meet you, Jennifer.”
“That remains to be seen, Steve.”
That made
him
smile, and a prickling awareness slid over the exposed skin of her back. For the first moment since her eyes had landed on Tony she saw him as a stranger might. Flight-weary, tired around the eyes, but
intense
, even as he leaned casually against the bar and crossed one leg in front of the other.
Her eyes slid down him. His jeans lovingly cupped his crotch, and when she looked back up he gave her a wink, and her face heated.
He was sexy.
A sexy stranger.
Cute.
“Remains to be seen, huh?” he asked.
Amber twirled her glass, watching the fog circle inside it. “Remains to be seen,” she repeated. Because so much did.
“I figure I’ve got about ten minutes.”
“Before what?”
“Ten minutes to drink this while you drink that.” He nodded toward her hand. “And then we’ll either grab a table and get to know each other better, or you’ll send me packing like you did that other guy.”
“That sounds about right.”
“Want me to cut to the chase?”
She studied his face.
Handsome guy, Steve.
“No,” she said. “No, I think ten minutes leaves you plenty of time to beat around the bush first.”
Tony sipped his drink. Grimaced. “Notice how I just declined to make a bush joke.”
“I did notice, but then you ruined it by mentioning it.”
“See, the thing is, it’s not really my forte.”
“What isn’t?”
“Being indirect.”
She glanced at him sideways, accidentally smiling again before dragging her gaze away to the liquor bottles lined up behind the bar.
No, he wasn’t indirect. He was one of the most direct people she’d ever met.
If she dropped the act and asked him why he was here, he would tell her, and … and then she would know. She’d have to figure out what to do about it.
There was a reason that she cried in the shower or sitting on the toilet, locked in the bathroom, even when no one was home.
She wasn’t ready to have that conversation.
She was afraid that once they had it, all her options would be laid out on the ground infront of her, and she’d have to start making choices that broke her heart. Or he would.
“I guess you’ll have to work on that,” she said. “If you want to be sitting with me at a table in ten minutes.”
“You don’t like direct men?”
She inhaled and drank some of her vile drink. Looked over at him. “It’s not that, exactly, Steve. It’s just—you’re dying to tell me what you want from me. What you saw from the other side
He hated it.
Was it terrible that she loved how much he hated it? She soaked up the barely disguised loathing in Tony’s expression, and she let herself acknowledge how dangerous his arrival was.
It
meant
something that he’d come back. His arrival was a declaration, and it gave her so much lift—such anticipatory excitement—that she wanted to crawl into a corner and hide.
You can’t fix this
, her fear whispered.
Neither of you knows how to fix this
.
But here he was.
Here he was, and he smelled like Tony, and he looked tired and a little rumpled and a whole lot good. So maybe he knew how. Maybe they
could
.
“That’s … different,” he said.
“Indeed.”
She sipped at hers. It tasted like licorice and ass.
She’d only ordered it because she remembered reading an article once that said absinthe wasn’t available in the United States. Some vague danger in the way it was produced that alarmed only Americans. She liked the idea of drinking such a forbidden, evil substance. She liked how ugly it was, how smoky and green.
“I’m Steve,” he said, and stuck out his hand.
She smiled.
She didn’t mean to. It just happened.
Steve
.
He was playing. He’d flown here for her—it must have been for her—and now he was pretending to be some guy she didn’t know. A Steve.
It was cute.
She’d never been able to resist Tony being cute.
“Jennifer.”
She shook his hand. No wedding ring.
“Nice to meet you, Jennifer.”
“That remains to be seen, Steve.”
That made
him
smile, and a prickling awareness slid over the exposed skin of her back. For the first moment since her eyes had landed on Tony she saw him as a stranger might. Flight-weary, tired around the eyes, but
intense
, even as he leaned casually against the bar and crossed one leg in front of the other.
Her eyes slid down him. His jeans lovingly cupped his crotch, and when she looked back up he gave her a wink, and her face heated.
He was sexy.
A sexy stranger.
Cute.
“Remains to be seen, huh?” he asked.
Amber twirled her glass, watching the fog circle inside it. “Remains to be seen,” she repeated. Because so much did.
“I figure I’ve got about ten minutes.”
“Before what?”
“Ten minutes to drink this while you drink that.” He nodded toward her hand. “And then we’ll either grab a table and get to know each other better, or you’ll send me packing like you did that other guy.”
“That sounds about right.”
“Want me to cut to the chase?”
She studied his face.
Handsome guy, Steve.
“No,” she said. “No, I think ten minutes leaves you plenty of time to beat around the bush first.”
Tony sipped his drink. Grimaced. “Notice how I just declined to make a bush joke.”
“I did notice, but then you ruined it by mentioning it.”
“See, the thing is, it’s not really my forte.”
“What isn’t?”
“Being indirect.”
She glanced at him sideways, accidentally smiling again before dragging her gaze away to the liquor bottles lined up behind the bar.
No, he wasn’t indirect. He was one of the most direct people she’d ever met.
If she dropped the act and asked him why he was here, he would tell her, and … and then she would know. She’d have to figure out what to do about it.
There was a reason that she cried in the shower or sitting on the toilet, locked in the bathroom, even when no one was home.
She wasn’t ready to have that conversation.
She was afraid that once they had it, all her options would be laid out on the ground infront of her, and she’d have to start making choices that broke her heart. Or he would.
“I guess you’ll have to work on that,” she said. “If you want to be sitting with me at a table in ten minutes.”
“You don’t like direct men?”
She inhaled and drank some of her vile drink. Looked over at him. “It’s not that, exactly, Steve. It’s just—you’re dying to tell me what you want from me. What you saw from the other side
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