Billionaires Dollar Series

“About our fellow patrons?”

“Yes.” He waves the bartender over. “I’ll have a whiskey neat. And the lady would like…”

I’m given a second chance, and I’m not going to hesitate this time. “A porn star martini,” I say. “With lots and lots of passionfruit.”

The stranger shoots me a crooked grin. “Interesting choice.”

“The drink tastes good,” I say defensively, “despite the name.”

“Hmm. Or perhaps because of it?”

To my mortification, a blush rises to my cheeks. I clear my throat and nod to the other side of the bar. “I’ve been thinking about the couple in the back… They’re clearly here for a special occasion. Have you figured out what it is?”

He glances over to the couple. They’re middle-aged, nicely dressed, but look a little out of place. The man shoots a nervous glance at the waiter.

“A proposal?”

My handsome stranger shakes his head and leans in closer. The smell of cologne, faint and masculine, hits me. “It’s his first time having an affair, I bet.”

“Wow,” I say. “If I was reprimanded for ordering a porn star martini, what does this say about you?”

His crooked smile is back. “Noted. Let’s go with a proposal instead. When in doubt, hope for a happy ending.”

I crane my neck. “I hope we’ll get to see it, if it happens.”

He turns to me fully, eyes narrowing, like he’s trying to figure me out. “Now, I’ve been watching you, but you’re harder to crack. From the way you’ve been frowning at your phone, you must be having the world’s most frustrating text conversation. Are you waiting for someone?”

I smile at that. “No, I’ve been trying to write.”

“You’re a writer?”

“Yes,” I say. Or I’m trying to be. But this man-older than me and probably wildly successful-doesn’t need to know that I’m a lowly bookstore clerk with nothing but a half-finished manuscript to my name.Content © NôvelDrama.Org 2024.

“Would I have read anything you’ve written?”

I smile into my drink. “Probably not, no.”

Not unless he’d been an avid reader of my college newspaper when I’d attended. I’d written some thrilling pieces about the cafeteria’s lack of vegetarian options.

Our drinks arrive and he nods a thank-you to the bartender. His, imposing and worldly. Mine, fruity and orange. I take a sip.

“Better?”

“Much. How come you’ve been watching me?”

“I told you. I like to people-watch.”

The bartender brings over the bill, and the handsome stranger settles it with a wave of his hand. “It’s on me,” he says.

The bartender gives a deep nod. “Of course, sir.”

I frown. “I’d like to pay for my drink.”

“Of course not,” he says. “You didn’t like the first one, so you shouldn’t have to pay for your replacement. It’s rule one of good service.”

“Yes, but that’s for the bar to fix, not you. You’re not the bar owner now, are you?”

Something glitters dangerously in his eyes. “No, I’m not.”

“Exactly.” I cross my legs, conscious of how the fabric rides up, and try to still the quick beating of my heart. Talking to ridiculously good-looking men at expensive bars is wildly unfamiliar to me. This will make for such good writing material! “Don’t think I haven’t noticed what you’re doing, by the way.”

“Oh?” His crooked smile is back. “And what am I doing?”

“You came over to stop a man from buying me a drink, to then insist you buy me a drink instead.”

He runs a hand over his jaw. “It’s that obvious, is it?”

“Fairly, yes.”

“Subtlety has never been my strong suit, I’m afraid.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Is that the true reason you’re here tonight? Not to people-watch, but to pick someone up?”

He laughs then, and the sound is magnificent, rich and strong and alluring. It rolls over my skin like a warm breeze. “Wow, you don’t pull any punches, do you?”

“I’m right?”

“Not exactly, no. I certainly wasn’t planning to. But the more you talk, the more I feel like going down that route, yes.”

Nerves dance in my stomach, but I’m not going to let this chance slip out of my fingers. So I hold out my hand. “In that case, I think a proper introduction is in order. My name is Skye.”

“Skye?”

“Yes,” I say, and have to stop from shuddering in pleasure when his warm hand closes around mine. He shakes it once, twice, three times… “My mom was in her bohemian phase when she had me. The phase ended, but I remained.”

His smile is back. “It’s unique, just like a woman sitting at a bar alone to write.”

“Well, said woman would like to know your name.”

His hand slips from mine with the soft caress of skin against skin. “Cole,” he says. “And since you didn’t add your last name, I’ll skip mine.”

I take another sip of my drink. Liquid courage, Skye. “Isn’t that part of this kind of encounter? Anonymity?”

His eyebrows rise again. “I wouldn’t know. I don’t usually talk to women at hotel bars.”

“Somehow, I doubt that.”

He takes a sip of his drink, the knuckle-length whiskey decreasing by a third. “I had my ideas about you, just from watching you. Judging by your comment, I’m guessing you have some about me.”