Page 9 of Adam
Why does my heart jump like crazy?
I tuck a lock of my hair behind my ear, bashfully glancing back at my beer bottle, feeling my cheeks flushing—almost burning.
Why is he still looking at me like that?
He looks like the typical bad boy who screams danger and should make me run as fast as I can, but for some reason, I can’t look away.
Well, joke’s on him, because what I need to do next is … pee. Of course.
I glance around, pretending to check out the place, even though what I’m really doing is locating the restroom. And yep, it’s right past him, tucked behind the far corner of the bar.
Great.
I sigh quietly, and slide off the stool.
As I walk past him, I try to act normal. Like I haven’t been overanalyzing his clean-shaven and sharp jawline for the past three minutes. I don’t look at him, and he doesn’t look at me either, but I can feel it. He knows where I’m going.
Keep it cool, I tell myself. It’s just the restroom. Not a runway.
But damn, my knees feel weird.
I try to walk steady, casual, but fuck my luck, my foot catches on the leg of a stool. My body jolts forward, off balance.
Before I can react, his arm wraps around my waist, firm and quick, pulling me in.
I crash lightly into him, chest to chest, and for a split second, we’re frozen like a still from some old movie.
His eyes meet mine. Gosh, he’s too close. I can smell the scotch on his breath, feel the heat off his skin. One hand is on my waist, the other still holding his glass like he didn’t even flinch.
“Are you alright?” he asks.
I nod, but I don’t move, and neither does he. It’s only a second, but it stretches, charged and stupidly perfect.
“Yeah.” I finally manage to articulate a single word. “I trip over stuff sometimes. I mean, I—” I gulp. “Nothing.”
His well-defined lips curve. He lets go slowly, making sure I’ve got my balance.
I clear my throat and take a step back, pretending I didn’t just short-circuit.
“Thanks,” I say, tucking my hair behind my ear again.
Yes, he’s big. Not only is he tall—about 6’3”—but he’s also broad and strong. His hair is styled in a tousled undercut, the sides closely shaved while the longer top falls in messy waves across his forehead, giving him a sharp yet effortlessly rebellious look. He looks young, around twenty-seven, and his cheek bones have that reddish healthy blush. I always loved that about men. And those rings on his fingers make him look like a complete bad boy.
His brown eyes linger on me for a bit longer. Then he smiles and sips his drink.
“You don’t look like you’re from around here.” He sets the glass on the counter.
“How did you—?” My eyes widen.
“You’re too … well-kept for this place.”
“Is that an insult?”
His smile broads. “I would never.” The way he says it makes my stomach flip, which is ridiculous. I roll my eyes, but I’m fighting a smile. He knows exactly what he’s doing. “So, what’s your story? How did you end up in this place?”
Tell him what? Which version of my life would sound good enough, without making me look like some pathetic damsel waiting for a prince to save her?
That I’m a coward who can’t even bring myself to run from my own family?
