He had one of those square jaws that razor commercials love to use for advertising. Tough. Masculine. Definitely not a pretty boy, but super sexy. And he smelled good too. His scent baited me, but I was locked on the shock value of his eyes. Talk about a commanding presence.
“You okay?” his deep voice rumbled, not even a trace of a smile evident. If anything, he was giving me this sort of steely-eyed gaze. His eyes were lasered in on me like they were analyzing me, able to hear what I was thinking. I felt myself blush at the thought. Silly. Of course he couldn’t hear me.
I realized he was waiting for me to say something, which flustered me because I couldn’t think of what he’d asked. Christ, I needed to stop staring at his eyes and keep up with the program. What was wrong with me?
Instead, I took a deep breath and asked my own question. “Are you moving in to 8D?”
“I did. Day before yesterday.”
“Then we’ll be neighbors.” I smiled, sticking my hand out. “My name’s Taylor Lane.”
“Ryder,” he replied, and he shook my hand with his rough, calloused one.
My hand disappeared inside his, and I swear a ripple of sensation went up my arm, giving me goose bumps the moment we touched. No kidding. It was so surprising, I sort of gasped. I went with my first instinct and snatched my hand back with an overly bright smile to cover my discomfort at feeling out of control. I couldn’t hide the flush that crept up my neck.
He scowled. I didn’t pay attention. Today had been just too weird already. For my own sanity, I needed the comfort of my sofa, some bad reality TV and maybe even a short nap. Everything always felt better after a nap.
“See you around, neighbor. Let me know if you need anything.” I did a quick retreat and made it to my apartment without encountering anyone else.
Chapter Two
“You ran? A gorgeous, muscular guy that gets you all hot and bothered is talking to you, and your next move is to run? Why do I bother?” Cynthia scowled at me and grabbed a bottle of water from our fridge. Taking the cap off, she took a deep swish, having just come across town through the hot sludge of traffic.
“Maybe you should go for him. He’s tall.”
“Yeah, right. My best friend tells me how he makes her heart flutter and then tells me with this martyred look that I should go for him? Get real.”
“No, really...”
“I’m waiting for Shep, remember?”
“Mr. Grunge. You’re too classy for him.”
“So maybe I’ll lower my standards for a night.”
“You’ll regret it in the morning.”
“You’re probably right. You look ready for work.” She gave me a once-over.
I’d exchanged my pastel blue pencil skirt and cute, sleeveless fitted blouse with tiny ruffles at the neck (cost me more than I like to remember, but it was worth it) for my standard-issue black mini and black tank, with a cheap, fitted cotton button-up that I tie the tails of around my waist. I wear black strappy heels that have a slight platform, giving me added height and making my legs look miles long.
I’m a bartender, not a waitress. I’ve been working at the club, Johnny’s Spot, long enough that I finally got off the floor and behind the bar. It has saved me some black-and-blue pinch marks on my ass, I can tell you that.