Christina was right.
There really is nothing more dangerous than a man with charm and tattooed arms.
It’s not that I’m shallow, don’t get me wrong. I need a good personality, a decent IQ and, at the very least, a hint of humor to even entertain the possibility of a date.
Well, that, or a hot body covered in tattoos, apparently. Because, hello, Mr. Hottie sitting on the other side of the bar, I would love a helping of that, with a little bit of whipped cream on the side.
Yes. For your dick. What can I say? I’m feeling a little frisky, and I just know that licking every single inch of your ink-covered skin is going to fill me up like a Vegas buffet.
Not that I’m positive about the tattoo thing, since the guy is still fully clothed - unfortunately. But his arms are visible, thanks to the white T-shirt that superbly showcases his biceps, and the crew neck is hinting that the tattoos don’t stop at the sleeves.
The light might be dim inside the bar, but I can see that his hair is dark, his jaw strong with a manly scruff that I already imagine wreaking havoc between my legs. He’s having a beer, his hand seemingly large around the bottle and, when he takes a long pull, I’m instantly attracted to his lips. Full. Without the scruff, they might actually be too full, almost feminine. But with that five o’clock shadow? It works. It really works.
Suddenly, agreeing to be the backup bridesmaid for my cousin’s wedding doesn’t seem like such a bad idea anymore. I mean, of course, my fifteen-year-old car breaking down in the middle of nowhere sucks. Ending up in this bar that seemed more than a little shady from the outside wasn’t my plan either. But there is a motel not far away, and the mechanic who rescued me with his tow truck assured me that Bertha would be ready to roll by tomorrow morning at the latest, leaving me plenty of time to make it to Sonoma for the four o’clock ceremony.
It would be such a shame if I missed Cassie-the-bitch marrying Todd-the-knob, after all. And my mom would be all over my ass for the next year or two, something I’m definitely not looking forward to. She already has enough ammo with my love life - or lack thereof.
It’s not that I love being single. I mean, I don’t mind it. I’d love to find someone who just… gets me. So far, it hasn’t happened, and I don’t feel desperate enough to settle down with the first decent guy who crosses my path. I’m twenty-eight, I have my own business, a few good friends, a cat, and the entire FRIENDS anthology, so life is pretty good, I would say. I could use a little more money, or at least enough to get a new car, but it’s in my plans for next year, right next to losing ten pounds.
OK, fine… twenty. I just don’t like setting myself up for failure and, in my line of work, losing weight is freaking hard. I’m a baker. Which means my whole life is dedicated to cupcakes and pastries. I know. It sucks.
I’m about to finish my white wine, my eyes now roaming over Mr. Hottie’s chest, when I finally notice that he’s not just wearing a white T-shirt.
No. He has a vest over it. How did I not notice it before? I want to say the tattoos distracted me, but to be fair his face is quite handsome too. My poor brain probably wanted to spare me because… this is not just a vest.
It’s black. Obviously leather. With patches.
Holy mother of all Holy Grails, Mr. Hottie is a biker.
I’m not positive my panties survived my discovery, so I shift on my chair, discreetly making sure that they are still attached to my butt. Still there. Good. I’m wearing a flowy skirt and even though I’m assaulted by mental pictures of us going at it against a wall, I also don’t want to risk flashing the two old dudes sitting on my left.
I gulp down the last of my wine and reach inside my purse to grab my phone, because there is no way Val is going to believe me when I tell her I managed to find the one biker who doesn’t look like Bobby from Sons of Anarchy. Because, let’s be honest here, real bikers aren’t like Jax. Only in my favorite romance novels do they all look like they just escaped Magic Mike.
Except, I’m wrong. Obviously, I’m wrong. I have the evidence right in front of me: I found the El Dorado.
My teeth digging into my lower lip while I imagine him as my screensaver, I discreetly raise my iPhone, blessing its camera for still doing a good job despite the shitty light. It’s good that the bar is rather empty, and only the bartender, a guy named Wyatt, is there to observe me. He is eyeing me as he dries a glass, but I’ll never see him again and as long as Mr. Hottie doesn’t-
He totally sees me. He is staring right at the camera.
At first, it’s a blank look. Then a smirk lifts the corner of his lips as he cocks an eyebrow. Slowly.
His eyes are dark too, from what I can see. Because, yes, I’m zooming in. He already saw me anyway, and I’m not leaving this bar without proof. I just spotted the sexual equivalent of Bigfoot, for God’s sake. I’ll just pretend I’m checking to see if I don’t have anything between my teeth. I give my phone one of those fake, stiff toothy grins we usually only make when we suspect our spinach salad might have caused a dental disaster. I must look a little silly but better that than him knowing I’m playing paparazzi.
It’s a good plan, and it works too.
Until the flash goes off.