A Perfect Mistake
I needed to get laid. At least, that’s what my amber cocktail made me think—correction, my third amber cocktail. If the first two hadn’t murdered my inhibition, the third managed to land the final blow.
Minus my usual filter, my eyes wandered around the room, hunting for a man to prey on. The bar was packed for a Tuesday night. Waves of chatter encompassed me, creating a low hum in my ears. But I didn’t care about the noise, not when a particular delicious specimen held me captivated, with hair the hue of rich caramel sticking out in different directions. He sat at the bar, hunched over his drink. A brunette with boobs practically spilling out of her top tried to speak to him, but he shook his head and tapped in front of his ear twice, before turning back to his drink.
She may have slinked back to her friend, but I bit my lip, taming down the grin threatening to split my face. Perfect. My fingers itched to communicate, or smooth down his messy hair.
Before I could make up my mind, his broad shoulders stiffened and he turned. My alcohol-induced bravado vanished, and I tried to wrench my gaze away. Except, I didn’t move. Not an inch. Total disconnect from cranial activity to body movement. Damn fruity drinks. A pair of brown eyes locked with mine. Crap. I knew better than to be rude and stare.
Quick, sign something, I willed my hands, anything.