Page 7 of Thirst For Me
I open my eyes, careful to fix a serious expression on my face, just like his. “There’s alcohol in this, right?”
“Yup.”
“Great.” I take several deep, unapologetic gulps of it.
Something like amusement, or maybe lust, sparks in his eyes. I have no idea which, and it doesn’t matter.
No boys for the rest of the year.
Probably Samantha is his drop-dead-gorgeous wife, anyway.
“Thirsty?” he murmurs.
I set the cider down, trying like hell not to blush from the double entendre Ithinkhe intended. “Very.”
His gaze drifts to my mouth. “Good?”
We stare at each other as I wonder if he’s talking about the cider or this simmering, nonsensical heat that’s growing between us.
Finally, I say, “You know it is,” sounding weirdly breathless.
I’m talking about the cider, though.Justthe cider.
It’s the cider that’s making me warm.
I totally look for it, but he’s definitely not wearing a wedding ring. I lick my lip unintentionally, and his gaze tracks the movement.
I clear my throat. “I thought you had somewhere to be.”
“I do.”
“Something more important come up?”
He doesn’t look away from my face, doesn’t even blink, when he says, “Ask me tomorrow.”
Chapter 3
Mason
The prettiest disaster of a woman who’s ever walked up to my bar polishes off her glass of Citrus Zest spring cider, then fixes her haunting green eyes on me. “Will we be seeing each other tomorrow?” she says neutrally.
“Let’s find out.”
She holds my gaze for a moment, pink coloring her cheeks—maybe the effect of the alcohol, or whatever she’s thinking right now. Then she slides her glass toward me. “Can I have another, please?”
She’s so polite, it does something to me. I’m not even sure if I like it. I just can’t stop staring at her.
It’s not just that she’s pretty. Or how hot she looks in that yoga-wear, her cropped T-shirt sliding off one creamy shoulder. Or the silky, slightly disheveled brunette ponytail I want to slide through my fingers and wrap around my fist.
Maybe it’s the way she’s still trying so hard to be polite despite whatever went so sour for her in my office.
She reminds me of a wilted flower that someone forgot to water.
For some reason, it kind of outrages me, the idea that maybe she’s been mistreated somehow. It arouses every protective instinct I have.
Maybe I misjudged her when she first walked in, assumed she was like all the other city girls who strut in here, impatient for quick service and more interested in making Reels about their meal than actually tasting it.
Maybe she’s different.
