Holy Mother of …

I cancel the direction of my thoughts before they cross into blasphemous territory and rip my gaze away from the dark stare of the man who has just sat down at my bar. His magnetic presence caught my eye the second he pushed his way through the front door. I watched him pause, take in everything the Blind Pig has to offer. For a moment, my heart stopped when it looked like he was going to turn around and leave just as quickly as he’d come.

Please don’t, I silently whispered.

I don’t know why, but there was something about him that spoke to something deep, almost primordial, inside of me, and I knew I needed to get to know him as badly as I needed to draw my next breath.

Responsibilities be damned, if he’d walked out that door, I would have tossed the drink I was mixing aside and chased after him.

But he didn’t leave. Not only is he still here, but he’s sitting at the bar, just a handful of feet away from me.

Now that he’s here, I just need to figure out what to do with him.

A bead of sweat races down the length of my spine as I fight the twin urges to both hurry toward him and to turn and run far away.

I sneak a peek from beneath my lashes. Yep, he’s still sitting there and he’s just as magnetic as he was a second ago when our eyes met.

Shit.

I don’t know who he is or why he’s here, but every single fiber of my being senses he’s going to complicate my life just as much as the revenuer messed up my great-granddaddy’s moonshine empire.

“Earth to Lara.” Tracy’s unmistakable nasal voice captures my attention and I turn to her.

“What is it, Trace?” The sound of my voice makes me wince. I sound too breathless, too distracted. It doesn’t escape Tracy’s attention.

She floats a brow and taps the edge of the black folder she’s holding against the gleaming bar top.

“The Flynns wanta pay their tab. What’s put you in in la-la land?” She glances toward the far end of the bar and spots the dark stranger. “Ah. I see.” Propping her elbows on the bar, she leans closer. “Who is he?”

Grateful for the distraction, I grab the credit card poking out of the folder, slip it into the chip reader and wait for technology to do its thing. “Who?”

Tracy rolls her eyes. “Don’t give me that. You were looking at that guy. Thinking about him. And rightfully so. He’s the hottest thing that’s walked into this place in days. Maybe even weeks.”

“I don’t know who he is.” My little card reader flashes approved. I slip the card out and wait as the printer comes to life and spews out a receipt for the Flynns to sign. I scan the information, making sure everything is in order before passing it to Tracy. I like the convenience of technology, but I don’t trust it, especially not when it comes to getting a bar bill paid. A single mistake can easily add up to over a hundred dollars in this business.

“You need to get your ass over there. Get him a drink and then get his number.”

“Tracy!”

Another eye roll from the waitress. “Hey. You’ve been in a long dry spell. It’s time you got some action with a guy. And he’s a looker. I’d be all over him myself, except—” She waves her left hand so that the small diamond on her finger catches the light. “—I’ve already got me a good one.”

A familiar heaviness settles into the pit of my stomach, the same sense of dread I get each time Tracy flashes her new engagement ring. “Some of us don’t move at the speed of light.”

Tracy met the guy who is now her fiancé about eighteen days ago. They plan on exchanging vows on their three-week anniversary. Personally, I think she’s nuts. When it comes to relationships, I’ve always believed in taking my time and moving slow, making sure it’s the right person, or at the very least, someone I can trust.

She tucks the receipts and the credit card into the black folder. “It’s not like I’m exactly tripping over good guys here. Now that I’ve found one of my very own, I’m not gonna give him a chance to get away.”

Tracy spins away from the bar, her fingers curled around the folder before I have a chance to respond. She knows my feelings on the subject and doesn’t want to hear them again.

Sighing, I turn toward the man seated at the far end of the bar. As much as I’d like to have one of the guys who are working shoulder-to-whiskey bottle with me deal with him, I’m the person who is supposed to take care of the barflies while they handle the orders coming in from the floor. Changing the flow at this point would create problems for the rest of the night.

Plastering my best bright, non-committal, business-like smile on my face, I walk to the other side of the bar, occasionally exchanging a quick word or smile with one of my regulars, but not stopping until I meet the newcomer.

Oh. My. God.

From a distance he was good looking, but up close… It’s almost too much, rather like having Brad Pitt sitting at my bar. Not the current Brad Pitt, but Brad Pitt before his first marriage, Legends of the Fall Pitt. Only with broader shoulders and soulful brown eyes.

It’s as if the Greek gods smiled down on me and decided to create a man that checks off all my turn-ons. Soulful eyes, sexy mouth, high cheekbones, hair maybe a little too long to be fashionable. Long, lean body with shoulders so broad they may actually block out the sun.

Anxiety twists my gut and sets my heart racing.

I’m no good at this. I mean, when it comes to making small talk with customers and listening as they pour their heart out, I’m great. But approaching a guy that flips my trigger—I completely suck at it. I don’t know what to say. Hell, I don’t even know what to do with my hands, let alone where to look.

I’m torn between wanting to crawl across the bar and wrap my legs around his narrow hips and wanting to race to my little office and lock myself in, away from the temptation that is this gorgeous, unnamed man sitting at my bar.

I wrap my fingers around the edge of the bar top, holding on tightly just in case my knees suddenly give way.

“Howdy.”

The sound of my voice, a half octave higher than normal, makes me wince inwardly. I’m supposed to be a worldly woman. I’ve served hundreds of handsome men, though none as good looking as this guy. I don’t think there’s anyone in the world who holds a candle to this guy.

Swallowing, I try again. “Hi. Welcome to the Blind Pig.”

His gaze sweeps over my body, leaving a trail of warmth in its wake. It takes all my self-will not to shiver. “Interesting choice in work clothes.”

His voice is deep and flavored with just the faintest hint of a Southern accent. Why does it have to be deep? I’ve been a sucker for deep voices ever since my hormones kicked in as a teenager. I force myself to concentrate on his words, and not the interesting things the sound does to my body.

I look down at my flapper dress and shrug. “It gets the job done.”

“Mmm.”

He presses one hand flat against the bar top and rises up so he can scan the rest of my body. The move brings him close enough for me to pick up the spicy scent of his cologne.

“Interesting choice in shoes.”

Looking down, I chuckle. He’s right. The dress calls for a pair of strappy, mile high, stiletto heels. Not the white sneakers currently covering my feet.

“Heels are great for dancing. Bartending requires something practical.”

“And are you?” He settles back onto the barstool, eyeing the numerous rows of fringe decorating my dress, and his left eyebrow travels upward toward his hairline. “Practical?”

Reading the direction of his thoughts, I smile. I’ve always been one to appreciate humor and am more than willing to make fun of myself from time to time. “When it suits me.”

“Mmm.” For the first time since I stopped before him, he breaks eye contact, his gaze moving toward the live jazz band and the three couples happily twirling and swaying on the dance floor. “What about dancing? Is that something that suits you?”

“I’ve been known to cut loose on the dance floor from time to time.” I smooth my hands over my hips.

His eyes sparkle, and his smile deepens. “I bet it’s something to see. Hopefully I’ll have an opportunity some time.”

Every time he speaks, that dark velvet voice does strange things to my insides, making it damn near impossible to focus on his actual words. I suck in a deep breath, steadying myself. “What can I get you to drink?”

The sudden change in topic doesn’t phase him. “What’ve you got on tap?”

“Never been here before, have you?”

He slowly shakes his head and studies me with warm eyes. “No. But how did …”

“I modeled this place to mirror the speakeasies of the 1920s. So, we don’t sell any beer, but you’re welcome to as much of our house made whiskey, brandy, and gin as you want.”

His eyes widen. “What kind of bar doesn’t serve... Wait a minute, did you say you modeled this place?”

Pleasure blooms within my chest. I’m not the kind of person who walks around telling everyone I encounter about my business, but that doesn’t mean I don’t take a great deal of pride in what I’ve created. “Yes. So what kind of drink can I get you?”

He leans back with a shrug. “Surprise me.”

Short of telling me that I’ve won the lottery, he couldn’t have said anything that made me happier. The only thing I love more than matching a drink to a customer is figuring out the perfect whiskey recipe.

Spinning on my sneakered heel, I grab a high ball glass and snag a couple of bottles from the glass bottomed shelves.

“Paul.”

“Hmm,” I murmur as I watch two different colored liquids mix together.

“Paul. That’s my name.” Humor warms his voice. “Paul Sullivan.”

“Oh.” I was so caught up in his beauty and the interesting way my body responded to the sound of his voice, I didn’t realize I don’t have the faintest idea what his name is, or anything else for that matter. “Paul Sullivan.” I say it slowly, letting the syllables flow over my tongue, getting a feel for them. As far as names go, it’s a bit old fashioned, but it sounds nice and it seems to suit him. “I like it. It’s a nice solid kind of name.”

“My mother thought so. What name did your mother prefer?”

“Lara. I’m named after my great-grandmother.” Satisfied with what I’ve prepared, I scoop up the glass and present it to him. “Here you go.”

“Ah. Excellent.”

Paul accepts my offering, his fingers brushing mine, sending an unexpected jolt of electricity racing straight up my arm all the way to my heart. Startled, I nearly drop the drink and hurriedly take a step back, bumping into Trent, one of my fellow bartenders.

“Clumsy much?” Trent grins as he reaches out to steady me.

Heat floods my face. The only thing worse than overreacting to a single touch is knowing that all of my bartenders – and a fair amount of my patrons – know I’m hot and bothered. “Thanks,” I mutter and turn back to Paul.

Amusement dances in his eyes as they meet mine over the rim of his glass. Great. I’m about to become a puddle of unrequited lust on the floor and he thinks it’s funny. Clearly, he doesn’t realize this is all his fault.

I take a deep breath to cover my embarrassment and edge closer. “Well?”

Paul sets the glass down and reaches out, catching my hand in his, sending another blast of electric heat coursing through me. “I think this might be my new favorite place.”

I bite my lip to contain a smile. “Wonderful.” The word comes out too bright, too eager. I hurry to mask the eagerness with upbeat professionalism. “That’s exactly what I like hearing my customers say.”

He returns my smile. “Anything else you like hearing?”

“There’s a few phrases.”

“Such as?”

I nudge his drink towards him. “Drink up and hang around for a little while, and I’ll tell you.”