Jace The Bartender sidles up behind the bar and smiles at me in greeting.

“Hey, Celia.”

I struggle for an appropriate response, somehow managing to forget all about the word hello, but Jace is already raising his eyebrows.

“You’re wet.”

His voice is like liquid honey and it seeps through my veins like a drug. All I can do is nod. Despite the cold rain still soaking me, a rush of warmth flows through me, coming to a sharp point between my legs and making me clench my pussy. It’s as if his words aren’t an observation so much as a command, and suddenly I find I’m wet in more ways than one.

“It’s raining,” I say dumbly, squirming in my seat.

Wow, what scintillating conversation. Why is it that I seem to turn into a complete moron when I’m around this man? I mean, sure he has the body of a Greek God, with pecs that practically bust out of his t-shirts and tattooed biceps that could just scoop you up and throw you down on the bar in front of everyone and just …

I shake my head lightly. Get it together, Celia. You don’t need any more embarrassments today.

“Let me get you a towel.”

He turns before I can protest, disappearing back into the kitchen he’d just come out of. I look down at the pile of soggy napkins and try to ball them up as best as I can. Despite the fact that I’ve been here on dozens of occasions, I seem to manage to make an ass of myself in front of Jace every time, turning from educated corporate lawyer to blushing school girl. It’s ridiculous, really.

Jace comes back out and hands me a clean kitchen towel, which I take gratefully. I scrub my face and neck and then dab at my cleavage.

I glance up and see Jace watching as I lightly pull open the neck of the white collared shirt I’m wearing. I realize that it’s probably almost entirely see-through at this point, and I thank God for the boring charcoal blazer I’m wearing over top of it. I dab at my skin one more time and then try to pull the jacket closed as much as I can, feeling my nipples pebbling under the damp fabric and glad he can’t see the very obvious effect he has on me.

Jace is still watching me as I hand the towel back across to him. His blue eyes are bright, his lids heavy, and I realize he looks … intrigued? My cheeks flame in embarrassment. I hadn’t meant to put on quite such a show.

Jace takes the towel from me and drops it in a bin behind the bar.

“Your usual?”

“Yes, please. And a grilled cheese.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Bad day?”

I nod and actually find myself smiling. “Am I that obvious?”

He grins. “Well, you kind of have a tell.”

“Oh yeah? What is it?”

“Carbs and cheese.”

I laugh at that, a full loud barking laugh, way louder than I mean to. “So what you’re saying is I am that obvious.”

“Well … let’s just say last time you were having a bad day we ran out of macaroni and cheese.”

“Guilty.” I can’t help but laugh, even though the memory is still raw. Catching Martin like that … ending our engagement … throwing him out of the apartment. I’d come here the next day after work and drowned my sorrows in mac and cheese and cab franc. Dinner of champions and cheated-on girlfriends everywhere.

Jace grabs a bottle and starts pouring me a glass of red. My mouth is practically salivating already — although I’m not sure if it’s at the sight of the wine or the couple inches of muscled back I glimpsed as his t-shirt rode up when he reached to grab the bottle off the high shelf behind him. There’s a flush crawling across my skin and I have to resist the urge to fan myself.

When he’s filled my glass — with way more than the usual six ounces — he slides it across the bar toward me.

“Cheers.” I pick it up and down half of it one gulp. Who cares that it costs twenty-five bucks a glass?

Jace watches me with raised eyebrows, and when I set the glass back down on the bar, he wordlessly fills it back up.

“Want to talk about it?” he asks. “I am a bartender, you know. Better than a shrink.”

“Ha. No, that’s okay.” No way am I letting the sexiest man in Manhattan know what a mess my life is. He probably already thinks I’m a flake, thanks to the way I get all tongue-tied around him.

He shrugs. “If you change your mind, you know where to find me.” He flashes me a thousand-watt grin, showing off perfect white teeth framed between pillowy soft lips. The kind of mouth you would never stop kissing, if he was yours.

I shake my head lightly as he walks away, probably to put my grilled cheese order in with the kitchen. For one brief second, I’m almost tempted to tell him my whole sob story, if only so that he’ll stay and talk to me a little longer, so that I can continue my ongoing game of ‘imagine what Jace The Bartender looks like naked,’ a game I’m basically an expert in by now.

At this point, I think I’ve imagined every detail of that man’s body — the way his chest would be broad and smooth, with tight brown nipples. The way his abs would ripple under a woman’s fingertips, the way they would lead down to a tapered vee, the way his strong thighs and his sculpted ass would flex as he thrust his cock in and out of some poor destroyed pussy.

Because his cock … oh, the cock I imagined was massive. Ten inches, at least, and thick as a beer can. Throbbing and veiny and punishing.

I’m sure there’s no way the reality can live up to everything I’ve imagined — but it doesn’t matter anyway, because it’s not like I’m ever going to experience it. It’s just a little harmless daydreaming.

I suppose it should have been a warning sign that even when I was engaged to Martin, I was fantasizing about Jace The Bartender. Not that I would have done anything about it — God, no. Martin might be a cheater, but I wasn’t. But that didn’t stop me from thinking about Jace. Because where Martin was Ivy-league pressed khakis and horn-rimmed glasses — handsome in his own prissy sort of way — Jace was pure bad ass sex appeal. Tattoos, muscles, a stubbled jaw, the kind of guy that you can just tell would fuck like a rock star. And sometimes a girl just wants to get lost in a fantasy like that.

But that’s all it is. A fantasy.

The kitchen door swings open and Jace emerges, carrying a steaming sandwich on a plate. You wouldn’t think it from looking at the exterior of this place — it screams dive bar — but they make awesome food here. The grilled cheese is probably the best I’ve ever had: thick white bread, sharp white cheddar old enough to have its own driver’s license, sliced pears, maple-smoked bacon, and fresh chives. A greasy little taste of heaven.

I’m taking the plate from him before he can even set it down on the bar and for just a second, our fingers touch.

A jolt shoots through me.

“Careful — it’s hot,” Jace warns.

I’ll say.

I reluctantly let go and allow him to set the plate in front of me, and then take another giant guzzle out of my wine glass. Now I’m wishing I’d ordered a beer — at least it would help cool me down a little.

A gaggle of college kids push in through the front door, laughing and as soaking wet as I was earlier, and Jace is occupied with serving them while I work on savoring my carbs and cheese.

By the time I finish my sandwich and my wine, I’m actually feeling marginally better. My clothes are almost dry and the day’s earlier humiliation is starting to fade into the wine buzz. Who cares if Turner & Crosby want me to take a couple of weeks off? It’s basically a paid vacation! My career so far has been so busy and intense that I can’t even remember when I last had time off. This is the perfect opportunity to stay in my pajamas all day and eat bonbons and watch soap operas, or whatever it is people do when they’re on vacation.

Hell, maybe I’ll even get myself laid while I’m off.

My eyes flit involuntarily to Jace as soon as the thought crosses my mind.

As if he can read my thoughts, he looks up from where he’s taking drink orders from a couple of douchey-looking young Wall Street types. Our eyes meet across the room, and it’s like an electric current shoots through me. It’s enough to make me shudder, and almost enough to make me fall off my chair.

Jace’s face twists into a slow grin and I find myself smiling back. Hesitantly. Maybe …

Then he glances down at my empty wine glass and nods, signaling that he’ll be back in a second to top up my drink. I sigh.

Crush on a bartender and what do you get? Well, if you’re as bad at flirting as I am, apparently drinks are the only thing you get.

Jace makes his way back over to me and refills my glass. Before I can even thank him, he’s turned around again, mixing drinks for the group he just came from. Well, if nothing else, it gives me an opportunity to check out his ass. I slurp my wine and take in the full hard roundness of his delectable backside, the way his shoulders ripple as he reaches for various bottles of liquor on the shelves above.

I rest my chin in my hand in sigh, then realize how pathetic I’m being. I’m practically flashing him cartoon heart-eyes, but to him, I’m just another customer.

I reach for my wine glass, intending to take another long satisfying swallow, but somehow I misjudge the distance and end up thwacking the stem of the glass with the back of my hand.

“Fuck!” The glass goes sailing, spilling wine all over the bar and down onto my charcoal skirt. “Fuck fuck fuck!”

Jace spins around to see what the commotion is. I’m frantically reaching for the napkins, only to realize I used them all when I was mopping up my face earlier. I look helplessly up at Jace as I use my hands to try to stem the tide of wine from flowing off the bar.

“Here.” He tosses me another clean towel and comes around to my side of the bar with a second one. Together we mop up the spilled wine.

His body is so close to mine as he stands there, wiping up my mess. I stop my cleaning efforts, suddenly intensely, incredibly aware of the hardness of him, the heat of him. His thick solid presence next to me. My skin sizzles and burns, like a hot pan. My breath catches in my throat.

My fingers reach out, almost of their own volition, and graze along his forearm.

I don’t mean to do it. Honestly. The same way I didn’t mean to throw those muffins at Martin. Some unconscious part of me takes over though, and before I know it I’m running my fingertips along the smooth skin of his inner arm.

He tenses, his fist clenching around the towel, making the veins on his arms pop out. My heart is racing but I trace my finger along those ridges, all the way down to his wrist and then dance across the palm of his hand.

“I’m sorry,” I say. My voice sounds hoarse. It barely even sounds like me.

“It’s okay.” His voice is hoarse too, I can’t help but notice, and I wonder for a second what that means. I force myself to look up into his eyes — those blue eyes, the color of the New York City sky on a perfect summer day. His eyes have gone dark now, though, and they bore right into me.

“What time is your shift over?”

The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them, before I can tell myself that this is a bad idea. Three years of coming here and I’ve had enough of fantasizing about Jace The Bartender. I want a taste of the real thing.

Jace squints and seems to hesitate, but only for a second. He tears his eyes away from mine just long enough to glance down at the old leather watch on his wrist.

“Twenty minutes.” His voice is rough, gravelly.

“Good.” I bite my lower lip, hoping he understands my meaning.

There’s a moment when I’m not sure, or when I think perhaps he’s considering how to let me down easy, but then his mouth twists into a sexy smirk.

“Good,” he echoes, and the pleasure licks through me like a flame.

Twenty minutes later, I’m leaving the bar with Jace The Bartender, wondering just what the hell I’m doing.