Filthy English

“Perhaps you should sip it,” Mike murmured, still hanging around.

“If you’d had the past few weeks I’d had, you’d chug it too.”

He let that go, running a hand across his beard, his eyes skating across the V-neck of my dress. Lingering. He met my eyes. “What’s your name, sweets?”

I squinted. “Are you flirting with me? It’s okay if you are. Just sayin’.”

“Absolutely. You’re bloody gorgeous.” Hooded eyes raked over my chest. Again.

I laughed. Feeling loose.

Maybe my rebound guy was right here in front of me.

“When you’re done hitting on the clientele, barman, we’d like a drink,” Mr. Beautiful snapped out in an authoritative British accent that demanded to be heard, causing Mike to flip away from me and focus on him. He scurried over and took his order.

I scowled. Wait a dang minute . . .

I almost knew that accent—deep with soft, rounded vowels, the kind of voice that made you want to hop into his bed and ride him like a cowgirl.

At the sound of it, chills had gone up my spine, and part of me wanted to jump off my stool and run away screaming, but the other side wanted to trace my fingers over Mr. Beautiful’s lips and ask him to say something else.

My name.

My phone number.

Romeo’s monologue outside Juliet’s window.

I pivoted on my barstool and found that Mr. Beautiful’s eyes had zeroed in on me once more, as if he too recognized the strange pull between us. Weird.

What was going on? Why was he staring at me?

My heart played hopscotch, jumping against my chest. My skin prickled.

Did I know him?

Did he know me?

It clicked, everything sliding into place. Dax Blay?

My breath hitched, and I swallowed down the emotion that zipped up my spine whenever I thought of him. He was my one HUGE mistake; the time I’d tossed inhibitions and carefully laid plans aside and went with my instincts (lots of sex), only to have it tossed back in my face.

But the man next to me wasn’t Dax. Thank God.

Last spring at the campus-wide end of the year fraternity party with Hartford, I’d seen Dax, and he’d had shorter hair, like always, and zero tattoos. Yeah. No way.

Plus, last I heard, he was in Raleigh where his father lived.

Yet . . .

Dax was British. He could have family here. Maybe he got a tattoo?

Nah. I mean, what were the odds of us both being at the same club on the same night in a country where neither of us lived?

Move on, Remi, forget faux-Dax. Focus on the bartender. He likes your cleavage.

Determined to get Mike’s attention back as he poured drinks for someone else, I slyly attempted to tug down the neckline of my dress with my right hand—check this out, Mikey—but the lace bodice snagged on my tennis bracelet in the process, leaving my wrist dangling like a wet dish rag in a most inappropriate place.

I wiggled my arm.

Jiggled it.

Sweat popped out on my forehead.

Holding my breath, I twisted and tugged the bracelet, forcing the delicate material in my bodice to stretch into the danger zone.

“Well, hell,” I breathed, pausing to assess.

Skin-tight with a plunging neckline, the dress was mostly a blue stretchy fabric held together by sequined straps and a zipper on the side. Slated as part of my honeymoon wardrobe, it was a Tory Burch and had cost four hundred dollars, the most I’d ever paid for a fun outfit, and no way did I want to damage it. I might have to return it to rent an apartment at Whitman.

Lulu. I needed Lulu. She was a whiz with wardrobe malfunctions.

I spun around on the barstool and used my free hand to wave at her, but she was slinging herself around dancing, having a great time and completely oblivious. I resorted to flapping both hands at her, one high and one low. Several people waved back with baffled expressions, but Lulu didn’t notice. Dammit.

I groaned and slumped down in my seat, ready to scream. Now what? Go to the bathroom and repair it there? Good plan.

But the club tilted when I stood, the strobe lights making me squint as they flashed in my face. I wobbled in my leopard-print heels—that Lulu had insisted I wear—and grabbed the stool to keep my balance.

I sucked in a breath to gather myself, but I couldn’t think straight. The room spun, and I was suddenly queasy, and why did I slam all that tequila, and oh my God, my wrist is currently attached to my tit like a T. rex arm.

“Hey, my shift ends in an hour or so depending on the crowd. You want to grab a drink?” Mike said.

Eeek. I’d forgotten all about the nice bartender.

Go with it, Remi. Be cool. Don’t be a wacko.

I pivoted carefully around to face him, using my captured hand as a chinrest, forcing me to lean my head down at an odd angle.

His brow wrinkled. “You okay there? You’re kinda pale.”

“Uh, maybe? Not really. I just—uh—need to go to the ladies’ room first. I—I’ll be back in a minute.” Trying to be stealth-like, I reached across the bar to get my beaded clutch, but because it was my left hand and not my right, which I used most of the time, I got off balance and stumbled—and my ankle folded in on itself. I yelped as my shoe catapulted off my foot and vaulted off toward who knows where, while I fell forward, straight into Mr. Beautiful’s lap.

Fifteen Minutes Earlier

MY COUSIN SPIDER (real name Clarence) and I walked inside the nightclub.

I had one goal this evening: Alcohol and a lot of it.

I hadn’t had sex in eighty-seven days, five hours, and a few odd minutes, which seems strange for a handsome and charismatic guy like myself who was used to getting a different flavor each month, but when my twin brother Declan had dared me to be celibate in order to clear my head, I’d accepted his challenge.