Page 7 of Whiskey Girl

My stomach tightens with need as Logan reaches me.

“Hey, bartender.” His voice is low and deliberate.

One hand goes to my hip as he inserts himself between my dangling legs.

A cocky grin that always levels me.

A scar on his cheek that cuts my heart in half because I know where it came from.

A raindrop tattoo on his right bicep that matches the one I have on my left breast.

And whiskey eyes the same color as mine.

Those eyes see right through me as usual when he says with certainty, “You need something.”