Tequila Rose by Willow Winters (any book recommendations .TXT) 📗

when humor glints in his gorgeous eyes. “Sorry,” I whisper.  The wince is from embarrassment, not from my shoes this time.

“You all right?” he asks, sitting back in his seat but not taking his gaze off me.  The suggestion of laughter still lingers on his lips, but he eyes me with concern.

“I had a little before I got here,” I tell him with a nod.  “You know, alcohol.”

“Uh-huh,” he says and smirks at me.

“So I’m just feeling a little tipsy.”

“You need a glass of water.”

“I just want to go for a second.”

“Running away, then?” he asks and I gawk at him.

Shaking my head, I deny it and say, “I’m not running away.”  Although that’s exactly what I was going to do. I lie when I add, “I’m just going to the restroom to wash my hands.”

“To wash your hands?”

“It’s the polite thing to say.” I lower my voice. “Would you rather I tell you I have to pee?”

His laugh is unexpected.  It’s louder than the chuckles before, genuine and everything I want to hear from those lips right now.  It’s deep and the cadence is as rough as the calluses on his hands.

“You’re real cute,” he tells me, his smile reaching his eyes.  “Can I at least have your name?”

Mags.  My name is there on the tip of my tongue.  But that’s what Robert called me.

I don’t want to be Magnolia.

Tonight, I want to be a rose.  Beautiful and delicate, but covered in thorns.  You can’t fuck with a rose.

“Rose,” I say, lying for the second time tonight.  In a matter of five minutes, I’ve already lied to this man twice.  Once about running away, and now about my name. I’m not proud of that, but the way he murmurs Rose like he’s tasting it on his tongue, makes me feel just about okay with lying.

Maybe even good. That bit of heat from before ripples through me, and the ease that washes away the panic that hit me a moment ago, that definitely feels better than good.

“And you?” I ask and he simply stares at me.  For one long second and then another. “Your name?” I add, thinking maybe I didn’t make sense.

His tongue clicks against the roof of his mouth, drawing attention to both his strong jawline and his gorgeous lips.  Especially the bottom one. My gaze stays there another second before I realize I’m waiting on him to give me his name.

“Why don’t you head to the bathroom, or wherever you’re going,” he says confidently. “I’ll tell you when you get back.”

He flashes me a wink with an asymmetrical grin playing at his lips, right before turning back to the bar.  The music and chatter are so loud around me that I can’t hear what he tells the bartender.

It doesn’t matter, though.  The bathroom is my refuge. Every step I take to get there, every second I spend in the small line before I can snag a stall, I think about whether or not I’m actually going back to the bar.

Apparently, I really did have to pee.

It’s not until I think about what I’d do if I did go home that I make my decision.  I’ve cried enough already today. I’m not going home to hug my pillow and feel that loneliness again.  A little touch-up of powder and gloss is all I need. My cheeks are a bit flushed, but hey, how could they not be after sitting next to that man?

Mistake number three: going back to the bar.

The third time is the charm, isn’t it?

“You came back,” Mr. Hot Stuff comments and it forces a blush to heat my cheeks.

Sliding back onto the barstool and getting myself situated, I let out a huff of protest.  “I said I would.”

“Brody,” he says and the one word finally hits me.  Brody.  The sex god has a name.

“I’ve never met a Brody before,” I say absently.  I thought maybe, while I was in the bathroom, that he wasn’t as good looking as I imagined him to be.  Beer goggles had taken effect or something. But looking at him from his profile to his broad shoulders, no one could ever deny Brody is a good-looking man.

“Nice to meet you, Rose.”  The moment he says my fake name, a basket hits the bar, stealing my attention.  It’s hot and filled with slices of fried pickles. My mouth waters instantaneously.  My favorite. Some people have a sweet tooth; I’ve got a salt tooth.

“And a water,” the bartender says, placing a tall, clear glass in front of me.

“Oh, I didn’t order this,” I say to correct him, although I will definitely be ordering fried pickles the moment he takes them away.

“I think you might need them,” Brody tells me, leaning in close. I get another whiff of him, but it’s too short lived as he pulls away.  “You’ve got to share the pickles, though. They’re my favorite.”

“Mine too,” I say, pushing the basket so it’s between the both of us instead of in front of my lonesome seat.  “Whenever they’re on a menu, I always get them.”

I pop the first one into my mouth and bite down, but immediately my mouth makes an O and I breathe out.  “They’re hot,” I comment around the pickle and cover my mouth with both hands. The steam blows against them.

I feel like such a mess and foolish.

Brody’s chuckle eases me, though.  I could get used to a laugh like that and the way it lights me up is like something I haven’t felt before.

Maybe it’s just because I haven’t flirted in so long.  That has to be why I feel all these butterflies.

I can’t even remember the last time I had fun like this.

We stay until “Closing Time” plays on the speakers and they turn the lights on full blast in the bar, ushering us out.  By that point, everything is a blur. It all happens so fast but it’s