Matt’s still propped against the edge of the bar when I reach him. The crowd is thinner over here and I get a good look at him from a few feet away: sandy undercut hair and an angular face, softened by full lips and just the right amount of stubble. He’s got the perfect features to pull off his eyebrow piercing, and while they’re currently covered by a navy blue coat, all my internet stalking has proved he’s got the perfect arms to pull off the collection of tattoos on both.
Eric the Surfer might have been hot in a general sense, but Matt Pearson is one hundred percent my type.
Did I just admit someone in Sherbrooke Station is my type?
“Hey,” I call sharply, hoping I can help myself deny that little revelation by acting annoyed with him. “Giving up that easy?”
He gives me a cautious glance and then shifts his eyes from side to side, like he’s making sure I’m really talking to him.
“On looking for me,” I elaborate. “I’m Kay Fischer.”
Now his dark eyes travel up and down the length of me in a completely unapologetic stare. He smirks when they reach mine again.