Stealing the Bride

The bartender gives us our drinks. The hottie reaches for his wallet, and I put a hand on his wrist.

“I have a tab,” I say.

I lean in until I’m practically on the other side of the counter and give the bartender my sister’s name, so the hottie can’t quite catch what I’m saying.

> “That’s cool, but I don’t let ladies pay for my drinks.” He hands the money over.

“Fine by me.” To be honest, I prefer that we don’t pay for each other’s anything. That way, there won’t be any weird expectations or disappointments.

I drain half my gin and tonic, much thirstier than I thought.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

Name. I hesitate. Although my body’s going yes-yes-yes, something pulls me back. Probably the same cautious nature that makes me double-check my work, even when it’s something as simple as one plus one.

“How about we don’t exchange names?” I say. “An anonymous fun night.”

“Anonymous?” He arches an eyebrow and lets his gaze skim my forehead, eyes and mouth. “I’ve seen your face, and you’ve seen mine.”

Touché. “That doesn’t mean we need to exchange names, does it? It can still be incognito. More thrilling that way.”

He smiles that easy smile that sends heat shimmering through me. “Okay, but I still need some kind of name. I don’t want to be going ‘hey you’ all night.”

That’s a point. Besides, I want to do a final test to see if he’s worth the bother. “How about a nickname? I’ll let you come up with one for me.”

He considers.

I wait, anticipation building as seconds tick by. Come on, don’t disappoint me. I want to know what he’ll come up with. Is it going to be something silly or something amazing or something surprising? His answer will determine how the rest of the evening’s going to go. No matter how pretty he is, I can’t deal with a guy who’s empty in the head.

“Skittles,” he says.

“Skittles? Like the candy?” I’m not sure exactly how I feel about being named after something chewy and diabetes-inducing. I thought he’d choose something like Gorgeous…or if he’s clever, pick something from literature or pop culture.

“They’re sweet and colorful. And cheery. Just like you.”

Oh wow. Something warm and delicious unfurls. I really like him. It’s not even his face. Or his body. Sometimes the hottest guys can make themselves utterly repulsive by opening their mouths. Like that guy who tried to pick me up a few months ago by comparing me to Marilyn Monroe, as though I would be stupid enough to buy that I look anything like that.

But the hottie? Everything coming out of that gorgeous mouth is multiplying his charm. It’s pulling me to him like gravity and Newton’s apple.

“And how about me?” he says, leaning closer.

My gaze flicks to his lips, and I know exactly what I’m going to call him. “Whiskey.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, because you’ve been drinking it. I bet you taste like it, too.”

“Probably true.” Something bright and wicked glimmers in his eyes. He puts a hand between my shoulder blades, and my heart starts to thud.

“Let’s see if you taste like Skittles.” His mouth swoops down.

Chapter Four

Pascal

He brushes his lips over mine. His touch is soft, inviting rather than taking.

Hot sparks of excitement crackle over me. Even my fingertips are tingling.