Chapter Three

I observe the bartender, considering calling him to order another drink. It would help soothe my nerves, but being tipsy by the time Ladder Guy arrives doesn't sound like a good idea.

I take a deep breath instead and gaze at the bar's entrance. He's nearly five minutes late. Already, this isn't starting well. I don't care what Hana will say about it—I'm not waiting more than ten minutes for someone I don't even know.

It's my first time doing something like this, and I don't like it. As soon as I sobered up after that drunken night, I deleted my profile from the app and removed it from my phone. The only reason I'm even here is because she forced my hand with blackmail, threatening to post Throwback Thursday photos of me that should never see the light of day.

Because I blame her entirely for the situation I'm currently in, I send her a text.

Me

This is the craziest thing I've ever done.

Hananana

You haven't done it yet.

Me

Hana, it's too much.

Hananana

Oh, come on. It's nothing millions of people haven't done before. Besides, he could arrive any minute now. Aren't you a little curious?

Me

The fact that he's late doesn't work in his favor. He has another five to arrive, and then I'm gone.

Hananana

You're such a wuss, Gen. It's just a drink with some guy.

I set the phone down with a frustrated sigh. "This is ridiculous," I whisper to myself. I'm sure there are better and saner ways to hone my craft. It's been less than a week since Eddie broke things off, so being here now is way too early.

The thought of my ex makes my lips pinch with bitter discontentment. Although I haven't cried yet, nor am I feeling any deep emotions over it, the breakup is affecting my work. My mind isn't as focused as it used to be, and I've become paranoid, thinking every whisper I catch is about me.

Serves me right for dating someone who works for the same company.

We haven't spoken since he left. Not via messages, not on the phone, not in real life… I'm unsure who should be the one reaching out first. I'm the dumpee, so it would be pathetic if I did. He said he'd keep me updated when he had a space for his things. Maybe I should wait for that. Or maybe he'll come to his senses and return home.

I grab my clutch from the bar top, deciding to put an end to this madness. I'll pay for my lemon drop martini and leave before Ladder Guy can arrive.

Just as I'm about to wave for the bartender, a movement to my right catches my attention. The tall, broad, and dark silhouette that just entered the lounge is hard to miss, so my gaze is drawn to it at once. And when my eyes land on him, my credit card nearly slips from my fingers.

I don't think anyone quite like this man ever stepped into The Plaza. The way the surrounding chatter slightly dims confirms my suspicions.

Despite everything going on with him, the first thing I notice is how strikingly attractive he is. His angular jaw can cut through granite, and his deep-set, hooded eyes have a laser-like sharpness to them as they scan the room's occupants. The man's bone structure is immaculate, his cheekbones high and mighty, with a strong brow that rests under a flat forehead. His nose is also of ideal proportion, narrow and balanced. The bump that sits high on it indicates it was broken at least once, but that, somehow, doesn't get in the way of his magnetism. His dark hair is neatly cut, short at the bottom, with a flawless fade that leads to longer hair, which is slicked back.

Once I'm done taking in the dazzling features of his face, my inspection lowers, which causes my eyebrows to shoot up. Below that remarkable jawline of his, reddish tattoos creep up from the collar of his black leather jacket. As much as I want to hate it, I can't deny that it not only heightens his gorgeous features, but also gives him a dangerous and daring aura like I've never seen before. I can't make out the intricate drawings inked on his skin from where I am, and my eyes dart lower on instinct. On his large hands, more inky drawings, all the way to his knuckles.

Who the hell is this man?

When his analysis of the bar's patrons ventures toward me, I tense on my stool. The tiny hairs on my arms and the back of my neck rise. Then, his intense gaze locks with mine, and my breath catches in my throat, my heart hammering in my chest. The flicker of recognition that sparks in his eyes nearly undoes me.

No.

No, no, no.

This isn't Ladder Guy.

But he doesn't continue his search, taking a confident step in my direction instead.

Oh, don't worry, love. You'll notice me.Well, his overly confident statement now makes sense. I could hardly not notice him. Jesus Christ, everyone in here noticed him. For some reason—probably naivety—I didn't expect him to have anything other than those piercings I need him for. But now that he's approaching me, I realize how stupid that was. If he isn't scared of a giant needle repeatedly stabbing his penis, he's definitely not worried about one running across his skin to draw tattoos all over it.

Panic slowly sets in, my breath returning in short and irregular pants. What the hell did I get myself into?

I should look away and pretend I have no idea who he is, so maybe he'll be on his way and ignore me. But my entire body has turned both tense and limp, refusing to bend to my brain's will.

The closer he gets, the more intimidated I am by his height and build. Even fully dressed, I can guess at the hard-earned muscles that ripple underneath his dark jeans and the black T-shirt under his leather jacket. He seems to be in his early thirties, which is when men peak, according to Hana. The stranger confirms that theory, clearly in his prime.

My mind goes entirely blank once he's two steps away, close enough to catch the jade green of his irises and the finer details of his stunning face—down to the grain of the stubble that dusts his carved cheeks.

"Hello, Jessica from the dating app," he says in a low voice that drips with sin. Australian. He has an Australian accent, which comes as an even greater surprise than the tattoos and the rest of him.

"I almost didn't recognize you without the…" His eyes slowly descend to my chest, where purple satin covers me with modesty. April is too cold a month to wear something low cut, and I wouldn't have, anyway. "… freckles," he concludes.

Lie, a voice shouts in my head. Lie and say he's got the wrong person. My mouth opens, eager to put an end to all this madness, but not a sound comes out of it. Something's happening to me, and I hate it. His closeness is rendering me completely useless.

His head tilts slightly to the side, a devilish half grin pulling the corner of his lips. "Cat's got your tongue, love?"

Again, my vocal cords are unable to produce a sound. Not when my attention is on the tattoos that I can now see clearly on his stretched neck. Feathers. The incandescent tips of feathers are what's creeping out of his collar.

"Hmm…" he continues, his face veiled with amusement. "Too bad. I had plans for that tongue of yours."

It's either the crudeness, the image, or the reminder of why he's here, but that shakes me out of the trance he put me in. This was a mistake, and I must end it before it derails any further.

"You must have me confused with someone else, sir," I boldly lie, my voice slightly trembling.

His assurance doesn't even waver at my statement, his eyes still determinedly staring at the details of my face. "Are you sure about that, love? I'd recognize that shade of red anywhere."

Everything inside me flutters when he sends a hand between us to catch a strand of my hair between his thumb and index.

"Again, sir, I'm not—I'm not Jessica."

"Let's make sure, yeah?"

The instant he pulls his phone out of his back pocket, I realize my mistake. I don't even need to look at his screen to know what his thumb is doing on it. When my phone rings and vibrates on the bar, I close my eyes to recompose myself and avoid his cocky smirk.

Alright, I was caught in a lie, but I can still wriggle out of this mess.

"You're a naughty liar, Jessica," he says with nothing but amusement after hanging up.

My eyes whip open. "And you're late."

For some reason, that earns me a dashing grin. And at that very moment, I'm glad my legs are tightly crossed as I sit on the stool because I feel it inside me.

Again, who the hell is this man?

"My apologies for the wait, but I was detained," he offers with a slight bow of his head. I can feel my cheeks warm up at the thought that the man is even more dangerous than he looks. He must catch my inner turmoil because he impishly adds, "At work."

My shoulders sink with relief, and he bites back a smile.

"Mister…" I trail off, trying to remember a name I never even asked for. "Sir. I fear there's been—"

"Hold that thought. Excuse me, mate," he calls to the man behind the counter. The tattooed stranger points at my empty glass and says, "Another like this, and I'll have a draft beer."

The bartender nods and springs into action with quiet efficiency. Oh, no. We're not having drinks.

"Sir," I try again.

"Jake."

"Mr. Jake—"

He can't quite hold back the chuckle that rolls out of his throat. "Just Jake, love."

"Don't call me that."

"Would you prefer kitten? Baby? Sweetheart? Red?"

My cheeks, or rather my whole face, warm up at the flirty tone he uses for each endearment. I gather myself as swiftly as I can. "I would prefer Jessica," I reply dryly.

He laughs again, shaking his head. "Listen, I get that I'm not what you expected. But I came from too far to not at least have a drink," he nonchalantly explains. "So, I'll have a beer over there, and if you feel like not making this evening a waste of time, you're free to join me. We'll have a nice chat and part ways."

The bartender chooses that exact moment to return with the drinks the man—Jake—ordered and a bill. Once he's paid, this enigma of a man extends his tattooed hand to the tall glass of foamy beer, offers me a wink, and heads off to the table he gestured toward.

I sit there, dumbfounded, while he walks over to the empty booth. My eyes rake up and down his silhouette without my approval, and I marvel at the powerful legs I can perceive under his jeans and the roundness of his behind. This man is quite the specimen, and I don't recall ever meeting someone as effortlessly alluring as him.

Maybe one drink. That way, Hana won't be too hard on me when I tell her I chickened out and nothing happened. At least she'll think I gave this man a fair shot. Also, it would be rude of me to make him come all this way only to leave because of his unexpected appearance.

With a deep sigh, I slide down the stool, grab my phone, my clutch, and my lemon drop. He must hear the clicking of my heels on the polished marble of the floors, but he doesn't turn around. He's busy removing his jacket when I join him.

Adamant to make things clear before this goes any further, I say, "Sir, you—"

My interjection dies in my throat as the leather comes off, revealing more tattoos. His arms are covered in intricate designs of ink, and it only adds to his irresistible charm. The artworks are eclectic, but they somehow blend well together, showing a level of craftsmanship I never thought possible in tattoos. The incandescent feathers that creep up his neck are part of a much larger design, and more of them descend on his biceps. It looks like he has enormous wings spread across his back, which pour onto the rest of him.

A man from the hotel's staff is by us before I can remember how to speak, and he takes the jacket before disappearing back to the corner he came from.

With unwavering confidence, Jake lowers into a chair as I stand by the table's side, unsure what to do next. "Sit," he offers, gesturing at the cushioned seat opposite his. It's a suggestion more than an order, so I comply without a word.

For a moment, there's nothing but the chatter of the bar's patrons. My eyes dart to his inked forearms when he folds them across his broad chest and observes me. At this point, I have to admit it to myself, I'm beyond intrigued—I'm fascinated.

"Eli and I have been wondering," he starts, his green eyes commanding mine to meet them, "is it a dare?"

"Is what a dare?"

"The Jacob's ladder. Were you dared to try? Or is it a kink? Something you enjoy doing now and then?"

"No, I…" My gaze shies away from his, and I fidget with the velvet of my tiny black clutch. "I've never tried, but I was curious about what it might feel like."

Another crooked smirk tugs at his lips. "Women usually come back for more. So, I'd imagine it feels good. You used the past tense. Are you not curious anymore?"

I can't hold back an embarrassed wince. "The drunk version of me was very keen on trying when she created that profile. But sober me is still debating it."

"Now you're testing my morals, red. I've never had to get a woman drunk so she'd want a ride," he says with humor. "And as tempting as you are, I won't stoop that low."

My face is in a state of constant heat, but he still manages to make me blush harder. "That's commendable of you, sir."

"Do I look like someone who goes by ‘sir?'" He gestures at himself, compelling my gaze to examine him once more. "Call me Jake."

"And do I look like someone who calls people by their first name five minutes into meeting them?" I retort, echoing his gesture.

His eyes do the same as mine did, and I swear they linger on the fabric over my chest for a moment too long. "Clarke," he says.

"Excuse me?"

"My surname is Clarke."

"Oh… Alright, that works better for me, Mr. Clarke."

I can't put my finger on it, but there's something about this man's attitude that confuses me. When he arrived, everything about his demeanor told me he was a conqueror, a man who domineeringly took whatever he wanted. But since then, he's been nothing but respectful of my boundaries, despite the occasional flirting.

So, even though this won't lead to anything other than a drink and a conversation, I'm glad that I stuck around. This is a lesson in prejudice that I obviously needed.