Page 6 of The No Try Zone
His eyebrows crash down, as if he can’t quite believe what she said. “You don’t really mean that,” he cajoles. “Pretty girl like you at a bar in Vegas?”
With a sigh, she closes the paperback and gives him her undivided attention. “First of all, I just told you that I planned on staying alone all night. That should have been enough for your tiny brain to process, but perhaps it wasn’t. So I’ll be more blunt, and I’ll use small words to be sure you understand. I. Am. Not. Interested in you. You have already gotten an eyeful of my tits, ignored my own words,andattempted to tell me what I want. Meanwhile, you are a walking cliché of a boy who’s probably here on his daddy’s money and has a three-inch dick who hasn’t given a woman an orgasm in his entire life. Leave. Me. Alone.”
His mouth opens and closes as she speaks, a fish out of water. The guy may honestly have never had someone talk to him like this, and watching him try to process her words is like having my own personal comedy show.
I burst out laughing.
His face darkens as he looks at me. “Hey man, stay the fuck out of this.”
All his reaction does is make me laugh harder, and when I meet the woman’s eyes and find them filled with mirth, I let out a full-on guffaw, tears forming in the corners of my eyes. It’s honestly the most fun I’ve had in ages.
She starts giggling, too, turning her whole body toward me.
The guy mutters something under his breath and leaves, and I grab my drink and lift it in a toast to her. “Thanks for the show. That was incredible.”
She smiles, and the vision of her nearly knocks me on my ass. Fuck me, she isbeautiful. There’s a tiny gap between her two front teeth, and with that and the way her ice-blue eyes shine, I’m rendered utterly speechless.
“No worries,” she answers. “And thanks for diffusing the situation.”
I shrug, trying mightily to remain casual as I scramble for mental purchase. I never let women throw me for a loop like this, so why does a random Australian at a bar in Las Vegas have me so twisted up?Lock in, Thicke.“It wasn’t on purpose – you were handling yourself just fine. But the look on his face was priceless,” I grin.
She winks. “It was better once you started laughing at him.”
“It was, wasn’t it?”
She hums and flips her book back open, so I reluctantly search out the rugby match again. Up on the screen, Ireland’s winger dives toward the try line, the ball gripped hard in his hand, his arm outstretched. All Blacks players pile on him as the camera zooms in. The try is good, putting five more points on the board for Ireland. “Yes,” I mutter. I know how the game turns out, but it doesn’t stop me from rooting for the men in green.
She turns, attempting to follow my gaze, but there are far too many screens for that. And I’m not inclined to discuss rugby right now. As an Australian, she’s likely got a better working knowledge than the average American, so it would probably be a decent conversation. Way better than the usual explanations I have to give on why the players aren’t wearing protective gear and what a try is, never mind attempting to describe a ruck or maul or why two men are lifting a third so high into the air that his butt cheeks are exposed. The thought of a knowledgeable talk about rugby with this woman makes me jittery for reasons I can’t quite explain.
Thankfully, the bartender comes back and nods at my empty glass, interrupting any question she might have had.
I hesitate. I’m a two drinks maximum kind of guy, and I’ve just finished my second round of incredibly tasty tequila. “Water for now.”
He nods as he pours the water and slides it in front of me, then keeps moving.
“Rules?” she asks.
I raise a brow.
She nods at the glass. “The water. Do you have rules like me?”
Rules like her.
Fuck me. This is exactly why I should have left. And it’s exactly why I should leave now. Pay the tab, shut this conversation down, and leave. But the other part of me – the stupid, impulsive part that I’ve spent my life stomping down – is racing down the pitch, rugby ball gripped against my chest, laughing hysterically at the slew of players at his back. This, ironically, is one of my rules: don’t get involved. Ever. Feelings are messy and rarely controlled. But then she smiles, unknowingly delivering a fatal blow, and I fold.
“Something like that. What are your rules?”
Her eyes shimmer. “Don’t talk to men in bars.”
I bark out a laugh, surprise flaring through me. “I don’t think you’re off to a good start on that one.”
She raises her glass of wine in acknowledgment, then takes a sip. “The other rule – my biggest one – is that I’m only allowed one drink. Any more than that and things get…dicey.”
Well, now I’m curious. “Dicey?”
“Let’s say that I tend to misbehave. Not anything illegal,” she hurries to say as I snort a laugh, “but more like, mischievous.”
“Mischievous?” I repeat.
