7. Cohen

I was a fucking idiot.

A clumsy idiot.

I couldn't believe I'd gotten beer all over her. What was I? A stupid teenager with shaking hands and hormones controlling my every move? If I hadn't ruined my chances with my clumsiness, that stupid comment about getting her out of the dress would surely do the trick.

I tried to remember back to six months ago—that was about the last time I'd taken someone home. I used to be so smooth. So confident. What had changed?

The woman, that's what.

I didn't even know her name, but I was completely captivated by her. The way her eyes looked deep blue in the dimly lit kitchen. The fullness of her lips, parted in shock. The clear ring of her voice and the softness of her skin when I'd touched her arm.

I wanted to touch more of her. See if everything else was just as soft.

I shuddered. God, I was out of practice.

Clearing my mind, and subtly repositioning myself, I walked to the bar, ready to make good on my promise for a drink. I hated the way beer smelled after it had spilled and dried. Hopefully this would help make it up to her. Give me an excuse to get her talking.

As I waited for her to change, I ran through a list of potential questions in my mind. Something less mundane than the "what do you do" "where are you from" kind of thing. I wanted to know what was behind those pretty blue eyes. What made her smile that way when she and her friend were talking.

I wanted to make her smile too.

God, I was pathetic.

When there was a break in the line, I asked the bartender to get me another beer—one I'd be much more careful with—and leaned back to see her coming toward me.

Shit.

Damn.

Holy fucking hotness.

Even with her ample curves, the shirt was way too big on her, the sleeves falling almost to her elbows, but the hem was just as short on her as the tight dress had been.

My mind immediately imagined having her alone in the bar. Leaning her over the wood counters and pulling her curls and fucking her until she screamed my name.

If she could have heard my thoughts, she would have run away. Instead, she nervously tugged at the hem of the shirt and gave me a bashful smile.

So not only was she hot, she was also drop-dead fucking gorgeous.

I cleared my throat, trying to speak like I wasn't just eye-fucking the shit out of her. "You make my shirt look good. What can I get you to drink?"

"A mojito," she said, sliding into the chair next to me. My eyes traveled toward the spot where the flesh of her thighs pressed together, obscuring what I longed to discover. Then I realized how creepy my thoughts were getting and focused on her eyes instead.

She seemed confused. "Your shirt?"

I took a sip from my beer, trying to think about what she was asking. The shirt. I'd said it was mine. I took another drink, trying to think of a way to say I owned the place without looking like a pompous asshole. Damn, I really was out of practice. "It's my bar," I said lamely.

She looked down at the shirt, at the Collie logo on the front pocket. When she looked up at me, she blurted, "Your bathrooms are gross."