Pretend It's Love(3)

Hell no.

Still, at least he called. That was more than she could say for her mother.

She shoved the still-buzzing device into her handbag and kept walking.  Eventually she'd need to take his call, but after an abysmal day of  rejection she needed a drink. Normally getting home to work on a new  cocktail or test out a new infusion idea would be priority. But not  today.         

     



 

The buzzing started up again, and Libby rummaged around in her bag to  find her phone. She wouldn't give her father the satisfaction of  answering his call, but she could turn the damn thing off so she didn't  go insane. She continued walking as she hunted for her phone, her blood  pressure rising with each step. Maybe she should answer his call if only  so she could tell him what an arrogant, selfish, mean-"Hey!"

Libby looked up at the sound of the warning but her shoe connected hard  with a solid mass. Pain ricocheted through her ankle as the world tilted  beneath her feet. A strong hand wrapped around her arm, wrenching her  back to standing just as the sound of glass shattering pierced the air  around her.

It took her a moment to realize her eyes were squeezed shut, although  against what she wasn't sure. Pain and mortification were neck and neck.

Libby cracked an eyelid open, her breath catching in her throat. The man  holding her wore a tight black T-shirt that amply showed off solid arms  and broad shoulders. But it was his face that made her chest squeeze  and her mouth run dry. The fading daylight cast shadows across him,  highlighting razor-sharp cheekbones and full lips. His eyes-edging on  black-were covered with heavy lashes, and his hair had been cut short,  though it didn't hide its natural kink.

He held a now-empty tray in the hand that wasn't wrapped around her arm. Libby risked a glance at the floor and cringed.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his dark brows narrowed in a way that made her  unsure whether he was concerned or furious. Maybe it was a little of  both.

Her brain grappled for a response, but the fireworks going off in her  body were more than a little distracting. It seemed that if you spent  long enough away from the opposite sex that first "re-introduction"  would wreak havoc on one's hormones.

"I'm fine." Libby mustered a smile; she was not the sort of girl who got  flustered by a hot guy … usually. Now embarrassing failures of  coordination on the other hand …  "Uhh … thanks?"

"Was that a question?" He released her slowly, his dark eyes tracking her movement.

She tried to put pressure on her foot but fiery pain shot up her leg, making her gasp. "No."

"You're not okay." He put the drinks tray down on the table. The bar's  name, First, was artfully carved into the wood in funky, tattoo-style  font.

For some reason the name sounded familiar.

"Neither are your glasses," she said miserably looking down to the  glittering shards decorating the footpath. "Did I get them all?"

"Every single one." A smile twitched at the corner of his lips. "But  glasses can be replaced. That ankle looks like it needs some TLC,  though."

"I'm fine." She tried to stand normally while keeping all her weight on her good foot.

Stupid weak ankles and stupid, stupid heels. This day could not get any worse.

His face told her he wasn't buying it. "Let me help you inside. You can take a seat, and we'll call you a cab."

Did she have to embarrass herself in front of the hottest guy on earth?  No scratch that, guys like him weren't best described as hot. Striking,  perhaps … or exciting. Darkly sensual.

She swallowed. What happened to being a confident, intelligent, and  powerful woman? That was the Libby Gal Cocktails brand. Her signature.  But today every ounce of confidence she owned had slinked off with its  tail between its legs, and now she was playing damsel in distress. Ugh.

"You look like you could use a drink anyway." He smiled, holding out a hand to her. "I make a mean Negroni."

"Can you make it in a vat?"

"That bad, huh?"

She hesitated for a second and then took his hand, a shiver running  through her at the slide of his palm against hers. The grip was sure,  strong … yet gentle. He abandoned the drinks tray and came closer to her,  tugging her arm around his shoulders and supporting her weight against  him. They moved slowly, and each step made their bodies press together.

Libby clamped her lips together to keep from crying out as the pain in her ankle worsened.

The bar looked warm and inviting. Golden light spilled through the open  door, and the calming sounds of chatter and jazz music beckoned.

"How you holding up?" His easy smile and dark eyes made her heart thump as they stepped into the restaurant.

"Apart from the mortification," she muttered, "I'll be fine once I get that drink."

There were a few steps down from the doorway to the main area, and she could already feel her ankle protesting.

"Are you going to be able to get down the steps?" he asked.         

     



 

She hesitated and a second later he'd scooped her up into his arms and was carrying her down the steps and across to the bar.

"You can put me down now," she protested, covering her face with the hand that wasn't clinging desperately to him.

She hated heights, and he had to be at least six one … which would mean a  painful landing if he dropped her. But he walked with her in his arms as  though he was only carrying a bag of sugar. Confident, in control.

He probably thought she was a hot mess.

"Do you normally rescue clumsy girls in the street?" she asked as he stopped at the bar and set her down gently on a barstool.

"I'm a bartender; clumsy girls are my specialty." He flashed her a smile  as he reached over the bar and grabbed a pile of folded dishtowels.  Placing them on the stool opposite her, he dragged it closer so she  could rest her foot there. "You need to keep this elevated. I'll grab  you something cold to put on it."

"You're a regular first aid specialist," she quipped as he came back with a bag of frozen peas.

"Our barista has a habit of burning himself, so we always keep these  handy." He placed the peas on her ankle and removed her shoe.

Each brush of his fingers against her bare skin made her stomach flutter. Talk about a real Cinderella moment.

"There," he said, standing back and admiring his work. "Now how about that drink?"

"Thank you." She chanced a look at him, and the dark stare sent shockwaves through her.

Oh yeah, this guy had lady-killer written all over him.

"So you've had a rough day?" he asked, heading behind the bar.

She sighed and checked out her surroundings. "The roughest."

The bar was actually a bar and restaurant, the intimate tables obscured  from the street's view. Being a Tuesday night the room wasn't especially  packed, but they'd filled enough tables to take home a respectable  amount, she suspected. The other barstools were empty, except for a lone  beer drinker at one end.

"What'll it be?"

How about you? Naked. Now.

"I'll take you up on that Negroni. It's been a while since I've had  one." Libby dug her hand into the bag on her lap, hoping to hell he  couldn't read her mind. She pulled out her phone and saw the four missed  calls from her father. Ignoring them all, she texted Nina with a  pleading request to come and pick her up.

"Now that's a crying shame. I don't get to make them too often, a lot of  the ladies who come here either drink wine or vodka sodas." He screwed  up his nose and grabbed an orange from a container below the bar.  "Pretty boring."

"I'm definitely more of a cocktail girl."

"Music to my ears." He looked up, flashing her a brilliant smile that just about had her panties dissolving.

He deftly sliced the orange so a chunk of peel curled away from the  flesh. Gin, Campari, and vermouth were added to a glass filled with ice  and stirred. Then he ran the peel around the edges of the glass,  squeezing it before dropping it into the sunset-colored drink.

Between his bartending skills and the way he'd carried her, Libby could  tell this man was good with his hands … very good. A tingle ran the length  of her spine, stirring her in all the right places.

"That looks delicious," she said, hoping to hell he didn't realize that she was referring to him and not the drink.

"It's on the house." He placed the glass in front of her. "On one condition."

She sipped the drink and let out a small sigh as the perfect flavor  danced on her tongue. An artful medley of sweet and bitter. "Which is?"

"You tell me why your day was so crappy … you know, other than crashing into me and breaking all my glasses."

She flushed. "I'm working on a business venture, and it's not going as  well as I would like," she said, fighting her natural desire to put on a  confident face and sweep the bad bits under a rug.

He leaned forward, bracing his hands against the bar. "What's the business?"