by Piper King
See, my name’s not Jamie. It’s Jack. But Noah’s dare always comes with four rules.
1. Don’t tell her your real name.
2. Be your typical arrogant self.
3. Use whatever inane pickup line Noah comes up with next.
4. Make it half an hour without getting slapped.
I think he came up with the first rule to keep these dumb bets from getting traced back to him. Everyone in the area knows the Hall Brothers. If rumors swirl about the brothers at Bar Wilde using pickup lines that would make our mother flail in her grave, it won’t take long for Noah to get his own slap on the face.
“Nice to meet you, Jamie. I’m Zoe.” Her face turns a slightly darker shade of pink. “Of course, Roman already told you that though…”
She’s nervous. It’s kind of cute.
“What’s your poison?” I shoot her my trademark grin, the one that works on every girl I meet. But instead of melting under my gaze, she glances away. Interesting. I might have to take a different approach this time, though I have to remind myself I’m not really trying to get her into my bed.
“Usually wine,” she says.
Color me unsurprised. Of course she says wine. I bet she goes to tasting sessions at a city bar where she nibbles on cheese and rambles intellectual nonsense about the abstract artwork on the walls.
But then she continues, “Though I decided to try the local whiskey tonight.”
“You don’t say?” I raise my eyebrows and signal to Roman. “Well, in that case, two more of your Wilde Whiskey, please.”
“Wait, what?” Utter delight fills her face. And okay, I hadn’t expected that either. “Do you mean it’s Roman’s whiskey?”
“Best damn whiskey in all fifty states.” I lean closer and drop my voice to a whisper. “He likes to be modest, but he’s the hardest working asshole I’ve ever met. Owns this place, owns a distillery, and lives on a farm. Sometimes he sells his own eggs and milk at the farmer’s market.”
“And what about you?” she asks, her eyes bright and clear. Even though we’re talking about Roman and his miles-long list of accomplishments, she seems laser-focused on me. And I have to admit, I don’t mind it. “What do you do?”
“Jamie here,” Roman cuts in and slides the glasses of dark amber liquid across the wooden bar top, “builds things. Don’t you, Jamie? He’s quite the handyman.”
“Oh really?” Her lips turn up into a smile that fills the room. My eyes catch on her tongue, on her teeth, on her cherry red lipstick. I find myself leaning closer and appreciating the way her smile reaches all the way up to her light blue eyes. She’s got one hell of a smile. Even though she’s not my type, I have to admit her mouth is a fucking wonderland. What would those lips taste like, I wonder? And suddenly, I forget what we’ve been talking about.
“What do you build?” she asks, and I think it might be the second time she states her question.
“A little of this, a little of that. Cabinets, dressers, bookcases.” I decide to go with the more truthful of options. That’s how my business started out, after all. I made bookcases for friends and family in my garage, and things just expanded on from there. I don’t do much of that anymore though unless it's part of a larger package deal. “Pretty boring stuff. I’m much more interested in hearing what you do.”
Turn the conversation back onto her, and I don’t have to come up with any more lies.
She bites her bottom lip, and it’s definitely the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. Part shyness, part flirtation. Or at least I think it’s flirtation. The way she’s shifting closer and closer makes it seem as though my game is working on her.
“You think that’s boring?” She laughs a little. “Let me tell you about boring. I’m a project manager for a company in New York. I spend most of my days in a cubicle writing emails or making phone calls.”
About what I expected, but something about her answer disappoints me.
“Present tense, I notice” I say after I down my whiskey in one gulp. “So, I take it you’re not new to Redwater. You’re only passing through?”
She takes a sip of the whiskey and licks her lips in a slow and fluid motion that snags my eyeballs onto her mouth again. “I’m only here for a week. So, I thought I’d let my hair down and have some fun during my stay. Why not, huh? So far I’m glad I did.”
“I’d like to point out that you haven’t actually let your hair down.” I motion to her ponytail and wink.
She blushes. There’s no mistaking it. It’s hard to tell in the dim lighting, but she one-hundred percent has a blush going on. And there’s something sensual about the way she reaches up to free her hair. Her long dark strands cascade around her shoulders, and even though I’m usually a much bigger fan of blondes, I have an itch to run my fingers through her waves. Maybe it’s the whiskey. Maybe it’s because she defies my expectations. But something about this girl has me intrigued.
“That better?” I ask, my tone of voice a shade deeper than it was only seconds before.
“Much.” She takes another sip of whiskey and peeks at me through the hair now falling into her eyes. “But mostly I’m happy I tried this whiskey. My insides sure are getting hot.”
I know what she means, but her phrasing makes me go rock hard. Out of nowhere. One minute she’s not my type, the next minute she’s got my cock all excited. I mean, she’s still not my type.
Nope, not at all.
And I’m still not flirting with her. It’s just a bet. It’s just a game. My dick is getting confused. That’s all it means.
It’s been awhile since I’ve fucked anyone, so I can’t blame him.
“So, tell me one thing about yourself,” I say, dragging my thoughts as far away from the gutter as I can. “Anything at all. The more random, the better.”
She cocks her head as if she’s thinking hard, immediately playing along with my game. After a few moments, she smiles. “Okay, but you can’t make fun of me.”
Color me intrigued. “I’ll pinky swear it.” I crook my pinky toward her, and she takes it without hesitation, nodding solemnly as we make the vow.
“Every morning at seven…” Her face breaks out into a ridiculous grin. “I do a workout at home, but it’s not just any workout. I use one of those aerobic steps and do a dance routine while blasting Taylor Swift.”
I stifle the urge to laugh, and it’s hard to imagine this buttoned-up, stiff-backed girl whirling around to pop music.
“Taylor Swift. Really?”
She nods. “Always Taylor Swift.”
“How ridiculously cheesy,” I tease her. “I’m not entirely sure I can continue this conversation now that I know your guilty pleasure.”
She swats at my arm playfully. “Don’t tell me you don’t have any embarrassing secrets or guilty pleasures.”
“Oh, I most certainly do, darlin’. But I’ll need another dose of whiskey if you expect me to spill.”
“Too bad your glass is empty.”
“Would you two like another round?” Roman asks, crossing his arms across his chest and giving me a hard look. I can tell he’s not a fan of what I’m doing, and I wish I could explain to him that I’m not a fan either. Truth is, I’m realizing that I don’t really like this game very much. It’s dumb. It’s the kind of thing we did back in high school, and we’re a good ten years past that time of our lives.
Maybe this is the last time I’ll take on one of Noah’s dares.
As harmless as it is, it isn’t sitting right in my gut anymore.
I glance at the clock. Even though it feels as though I’ve been speaking to Zoe for mere seconds, my half hour is nearly up. I’m going to have to sneak in Noah’s dreaded pickup line if I’m going to win this bet, but I have a sneaking suspicion that will be the end of our conversation. I’m not really ready for it to be over just yet.
“Yes, please. Two more. And you know what? This one’s on me.” Zoe shoots me a genuine, full-faced smile, and I realize that I really am the world’s big
gest asshole. I’ve been told many times before, but now I’m seeing it for myself.
I can’t do it. Not this time.
I’ll never hear the end of it, but at least I’ll be able to sleep well at night. I walked over here expecting to chat up a snobby, cold-hearted sheep who sniffed in open disdain at me, this town I call home, and the bar I built with my own two hands. Instead, she looks as though she fits right in, a happy, relaxed expression on her cute pixie face. Hell, she’s drinking Roman’s damn whiskey and loving it. The warm flickering candles accentuates her soft features, and she’s unbuttoning the top of her blouse for reasons I’m not sure I understand. But I’ll never argue when cleavage is on the menu.
But just because I’m not going through with the bet doesn’t mean this conversation has to end. Maybe I’ll try a different pick-up line on her. A real one. Not some groan-worthy pun that falls out of my brother’s head. Something better. Something that’s all me.
Something that gets her into my bed.
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