“Abigail Holliday, new attorney and summer vacationer,” I stick out my hand like a lame olive branch to shake his and, hopefully, put a little distance between us. He looks at me for a moment, before taking my hand.
Big.
Freaking.
Mistake.
Roman’s warm hand engulfs mine like a flickering flame slowly stoking to life and the rough spots of his palm rub against it as he pulls me closer to him, practically over the damn bar. His skin is abrasive from the outdoor work he does and each touch tingles an unforgiving response from my hand all the way to my brain, short-circuiting my verbal response. His thumb softly strokes the tender spot between my thumb and my fingers, causing me to shudder slightly. It hooks me in and pulls me under, suffocating any chance of rebuffing him. His hand isn’t clammy or awkward, just warm, big, and firm as he holds mine gently. I tug my arm back and he lets go, but not before squeezing my hand tenderly and smiling. What is it with people in Oregon squeezing hands?
“Ah, so now that we’ve been properly introduced, may I concoct the lady a drink?” Roman queries, curbing his previous attitude behind a friendly smile. I expect a snarky response, but he doesn’t give me one.
“White wine,” I request, looking down and opening my purse to pay him as I busy myself sliding my finger over my phone’s screen. Nothing from Lucas. I shrug, unsure of what I really expected from someone fourteen hours away, and slip my phone back into the zippered pouch, looking back to Roman.
“Boring! And keep your money, Princess Abby, drinks on me tonight.” He drawls out the word ‘boring’ like it’s as painful as he makes it sound.
“What’s wrong with white wine?” Frustrated, I push my purse around on the bar top and contemplate getting the hell out of here.
“You might as well have asked for a spritzer…and this, my dear, ain’t no country club.” He smiles, quoting a Sheryl Crow song and my belly does this ridiculous flop I want so desperately to ignore. I’m thankful this isn’t a country club—I left that behind in LA.
“Okay, hotshot, you suggest something and tell me what to drink.” Scrunching my nose, I wonder what this challenge got me into. I’m not usually into verbal sparring with men I barely know outside my job as a lawyer, but Roman has honestly been the only entertaining thing here besides walking the beach.
“Lemon drop.” He turns around, grabbing a bottle of vodka from the shelf and other ingredients, treating me to a view of his fine backside. I’m mesmerized for a moment, so I don’t realize he’s turned back around to show the bottle of vodka to me, waiting for my go-ahead. I realize I’ve now been staring at his package for a moment and the embarrassment flushes me. His face remains neutral with the exception of one cocked eyebrow and I know that he knows.
“That’s so…” I stare at him, shaking my head, wishing he’d just turn back around. Is it shallow? Most definitely, but you’ve never seen the backside of Roman Winters to make an effective counterargument. It’s also safer than imagining his package and knowing I’ve been caught looking him over.
“So what, Blondie?” The challenge is in his cool gray eyes and his hint of a smile, and it’s frustrating and fun all at once.
“Girlie,” I say, snorting my distaste, which causes him to throw his head back and laugh loudly, drawing the attention of just about everyone in the small town bar. The heat of my blush flashes in my cheeks again. I feel like I’m doomed to be overheated in his presence.
Roman is in mid-pour before he continues. “Unless you hate lemons, it’ll be perfect for you, because it’s both tart and sweet.” His voice deepens and I know he’s throwing evocative ideas at me. “Or do you want to suggest something else?”
I look around the bar, trying to remember a drink from my early college days, something that might impress him—or at least not make me look so naïve. I search for the most notable one I can consider imbibing. I’m not a drinker and I rarely go out; three years of drudgery in law school will do that to you.
I gather my courage for this and wish I’d had a glass of wine or something before leaving the cottage. Hiding my hands in my lap under the bar, I pinch my arm to keep myself from giggling.
“Blow job.” I look at him deadpan, using the face I practiced on for hours to use when I have to give courtroom dialogues and question clients. His arrogant smile falters. With a deep chuckle and a shake of his head, he downs a shot of pure vodka, making me question which of us needs the fortification more at this point. I don’t even question that he’s drinking while on the clock.
I honestly have no idea what is in a blow job, but I’ve seen the rare girlfriends of mine make a big deal of ordering and drinking them with their hands behind their backs at our little weekend girls’ night gatherings or bachelorette parties, which are sadly few and far between. I’m not stupid, just maybe a little inexperienced.
Roman leans over the counter to whispers in my ear, close enough his breath puffs against my face, the sharp scent of vodka mixing with his own. My hair tickles my neck and I involuntarily convulse with a shudder. I pinch my unseen arm harder to no avail. “Now who’s offering?”
Wow… that has me taken aback. His voice delights my ear, my face flushing with embarrassment while a funny little tightness spirals between my legs, only to release in a liquid slow burn, making me shift on top of the barstool. My panties are not wet. My panties are not wet, I chant in my head, feeling like the easiest co-ed on the planet.
“Umm...” I swear the barroom has heated up. The A/C must be broken because I’m too young for these hot flashes as his vodka fueled breath brushes past my ear in a cool ripple that seems to travel down my chest as if he is caressing my breasts through my shirt, circling my nipples, making me shiver.
Next time, I will fucking google a shot to drink before I say something stupid.
If I could have an out-of-body experience, I’d bet money my angel and demon twins are arguing this second. I try again to ignore the building feelings. We don’t even like each other, I try to reason with my body, but the sassy tart isn’t listening. I’m hot, I’m cold, I can’t decide anything realizing I should have brought a jacket as I rub my hands up my opposite arms for something distracting to do, because pinching the shit out of myself didn’t help at all.
“Exactly what I thought.” Smirking, he pushes back from the bar and, sadly, away from me, reaching under the counter for a martini glass. I have no idea what he did with the previous one because I am so mind-screwed. “Let’s stick to the lemon drops, Blondie, and you can tell me what brings you to Gold Beach.” He drops the glass in a bowl of sugar and then pours me a drink, sliding the glass across the bar.
I down the drink with bravado I don’t usually possess, struggling to keep my composure once the sour reaches my tongue. He has a glass of water waiting for me already. I lick my lips, appreciating the tartness of lemons and the sweetness from the sugared rim of the glass. Picking it up again, I lick the crystals off the glass. His eyes never leave my face, and I recognize the starved hunger behind them. I’m full of false courage but push onward.
“I’m taking the summer off before I go to work at my dad’s law firm.” Pushing the glass back in his general direction, I nod that I’m ready for a follow-up drink.
“So you’re a real lawyer then? Not just one on TV?” He pours me a second one, holding it back as I shrug in response before snatching it from him. Damn, he’s a good bartender.
“Is there another kind?” His comment isn’t the first one pegging me for an actress. I don’t look like a lawyer, but he also didn’t look like a notable conversationalist the first time I met him. He must not get out of Gold Beach too often, and I wonder what he does the rest of the year.