Burn for You (Slow Burn Book 1)(3)

No wonder Eeny had called him a werewolf. The man had the look of something wild and dangerous you might run across if you were out for a midnight stroll in the woods.

He looked up and caught me staring.

From all the way across the room I felt the weight of his gaze, the sudden shocking force of it, as if he’d reached out and seized me around the throat.

My breath caught. I had to convince myself not to step back. I forced a smile. Then I made myself move forward, when all my instincts were telling me to turn around and find a vial of holy water and a gun loaded with silver bullets.

I stopped often to shake hands with the regulars and say hello as I made my way through the room, so it was another few minutes before I made it to the bar. When I finally found myself standing in front of my intended target, I was dismayed to see his expression had turned from merely unpleasant to downright murderous.

The first thing Jackson Boudreaux said to me was, “I don’t like to be kept waiting.”

And my oh my did the Beast have a beautiful voice.

Deep and rich, silky but with an edge like a purr, it was at total odds with his unkempt appearance. It oozed confidence, command, and raw sex appeal. It was the voice of a man secure of his place in the world—a voice that was as used to giving orders to employees as it was to women beneath him in bed.

A flush of heat crept up my neck. I wasn’t sure if it was from annoyance, that voice, or his disturbing steely-blue eyes, which were now burning two holes in my head.

Before I could reply, he snapped, “Your hostess is incompetent. The music is too loud. And your drink menu is pretentious. ‘Romeo and Julep?’ ‘The Last of the Mojitos?’ Awful. If I were going on first impressions, I’d guess your food is awful, too.”

The flush on my neck flooded into my cheeks. My mouth decided to answer before I did. “And if I were going on first impressions, I’d guess you were one of the homeless panhandlers who harass the tourists over on the boulevard, and throw you out of my restaurant.”

Nostrils flared, he stared at me.

So much for unruffled feathers.

To cover my embarrassment, I stuck out my hand and introduced myself. “Bianca Hardwick. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Boudreaux.”

There was a long, terrible moment during which I thought he’d start to shout, but he simply took my hand and shook it.

“Miss Hardwick. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Formal. So he wasn’t born in a barn after all.

“Call me Bianca, please. I apologize for the wait.”

Jackson dropped my hand, and with it, his brief civility. “If I wanted to call you Bianca, I would have. Where’s my table?”

He glared at me, his hand wrapped so tightly around his drink his knuckles were white.

Pepper sure called this one. I owe that girl an apology.

Fighting the urge to kick him in the shin, I instead gave him my sweetest Southern-belle smile. I would not be intimidated, or bullied, or lose my cool on account of this arrogant jerk.

“Oh, it’s here somewhere.” Deliberately vague because I knew it would annoy him, I waved a hand in the air. “As soon as a table becomes available, we’ll squeeze you in where we can. So nice of you to drop by. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to—”

“Miss Hardwick,” he hissed, stepping closer to loom over me. “Where. Is. My. Table?”

I felt a dozen pairs of eyes on us. In my peripheral vision, I saw the bartender, Gilly—almost an older brother to me—red-faced in anger at how I was being treated. And was it my imagination, or had the restaurant gone quiet again?

One thing definitely wasn’t in my imagination. Jackson Boudreaux didn’t smell. At least not bad. Standing so close, I caught his scent: a delicious whiff of exotic musk and warm, clean skin that would have been extremely sexy on anyone else.

But it wasn’t anyone else. It was Prince A-hole, heir to an international bourbon dynasty, devoid of affection for shaving, haircuts, new clothes, or, it appeared, the human race.

Nappy! Picture him in a nappy with a binkie in his big fat mouth!

I lifted my chin and looked up into his eyes. I said calmly, “Maybe you were right about the music being too loud. It must have obstructed your hearing, because I just told you that we’d get you a table as soon as one becomes available. Or perhaps you’d prefer I throw someone out? Maybe that nice elderly couple by the piano? They look much less deserving of enjoying their meal than you do, am I right?”

His lips flattened. A muscle in his jaw flexed. Through his nose, he slowly drew in a breath.

I wondered if he was restraining himself from smashing his glass against the wall. Though my heart was hammering, I stood my ground and didn’t blink.