Chapter One
Piper
Two Months Ago
"You have an admirer."
I glance up from my notebook to see Guy Porter standing beside my booth with one hip cocked to the side. A glass dangles from his hand, his red polish dramatic against the white and brown alcohol.
"One White Russian," he says with a grin, depositing the drink in front of me. "From the fine specimen of a man at the end of the bar." Guy nods subtly in his direction. "He's been watching you all night. Not that you've noticed because you've been over here studying"—he flips closed the front of my book to read the title—"Corporate Social Responsibility in the Global Economy. Jesus, girl. On a Friday night?"
"Bartenders aren't supposed to judge," I mutter, locking eyes with the man who sent the White Russian. As soon as I do, my stomach flutters. He's gorgeous. His lips kick up into a lazy grin when he sees me looking at him. Even from across the crowded bar, I feel his gaze heat with interest. I quickly avert my gaze, a blush climbing up my cheeks.
"Pfft, I don't know who sold you that bullshit," Guy says, giving me a look that says I'm crazy if I expect him to believe that. "As your bartender, it's my God-given responsibility to judge your crazy ass. Especially when a man that fine has been eyeing you all night, and you haven't noticed."
"Who is he?"
"Uh, a one-way ticket to pound town?"
"Guy!" I hiss, praying the man in question can't hear him across the bar. Between the loud country music and the two dozen conversations happening simultaneously, I think it's loud enough to get me off the hook.
Guy laughs, completely unrepentant. He usually is. My favorite bartender is shameless. Unlike me, he has no problem hopping into and out of bed with whoever catches his eye. I'm not built the same. Casual sex isn't for me. Actually, no sex is for me. Or at least it never has been. I'm a twenty-one-year-old virgin…probably the last left in Tennessee.
I spend my days in class, and my nights and weekends are split between work and studying. It doesn't leave much time for dating. I've never met anyone who made me want to change that. Most men my age are like Guy—enjoying their youth and carving notches in their bedposts. I'm a hopeless romantic at heart. Though I'll never admit it, I want the fairytale.
"I'm just saying live a little, Piper," Guy says, nudging the drink toward me. "You're allowed to take one night off. Your perfect GPA won't come crashing down if you flirt a little."
He's probably right. But I've been a size eighteen since I was fourteen. While most girls were developing makeup skills and an affinity for flirting, I developed thick skin and a sassy attitude. It's a defense mechanism that works extremely well against stupid teenage boys. They can dish it out. They're not so good at taking it.
"Guess you're going to find out," Guy sing-sings, waving at me coquettishly as he sashays away. "He's heading in this direction."
Crap.
I jerk my head up …only to realize I've been set up. The gorgeous mystery man isn't headed my way. He's already three feet from my booth, closing the remaining distance rapidly. And he definitely isn't a twenty-something sowing wild oats. This man is in his late thirties, at least.
Up close, he's even more beautiful than he was from a distance. His dark hair is a little unruly on top but shorter on the sides, his blue eyes piercing. His scruffy jaw and full lips are captivating. He's tall and broad, built like a linebacker. He isn't ripped, though. He's just…brawny. As if his bulk comes from manual labor more than time spent in the gym. He doesn't look like a laborer, though. His suit is way too expensive for that.
"The bartender told me the only way I'd get you to accept a drink was if it came with caffeine," he says, stopping beside my booth, "so I had him use cold brew instead of coffee liqueur. He took it easy on the vodka too."
"Good choice," I say, feeling like my heart might beat out of my chest. He sounds even better than he looks, which shouldn't be possible. But his voice is like aged whiskey, somehow rough and smooth at the same time. It hits deep in my belly, striking chords that send pleasurable chills throughout my entire system. "I can't drink." My cheeks heat. "I mean, I can drink. I do drink." I huff. This isn't going well. "I drink sometimes, but I have an unhealthy obsession with coffee."
His lips tip up into that lazy grin again, his eyes lighting up.
"I'm studying," I say, flinging my hand out to indicate my books, nearly knocking over the drink in the process. Oh, good grief. I grab it before it manages to spill all over my notebook.
"I see that," he drawls. "What are you studying, pretty baby?"
"Business. Well, economics at the moment, but my major is business," I explain. I'm killing Guy. I can't even speak coherent sentences to this man. How does he expect me to flirt with him?
"You're in luck."
"Oh, really?"
"Mmhmm."
"And why is that?"
He leans forward like he's telling me a secret, so close his subtle, spicy scent tickles my senses. Another pleasurable chill dances through my system. "I happen to be in business," he says, his voice pitched low. "One of the best in the state."
"Bullshit is a business now?" I whisper back, fighting the urge to shiver as his breath washes across my cheek.
He chuckles. "Bullshit is the only business, pretty baby."
He's not entirely wrong about that. "You any good at it?"
"Business or bullshit?" he asks, teasing me.
"Business." I smile, instantly deciding I like him. Most businessmen take themselves too seriously. This one isn't averse to poking fun at himself.
"Damn good," he says. He isn't bragging, just being honest, I think.
"Oh, really?"
"Scout's Honor." He holds up three fingers in a solemn salute.
"What company do you work for?"
"I'll tell you…for a price."