Knot a Liar (Knotted Up Book 1) Read Online Free Page B

in that moment. His eyes gleam as his lips glean whatever humour he finds in the atmosphere.
    “I don’t bite. Unless you ask nicely.”
    I sit staring at the stranger. The moment my eyes hold his gaze, I feel a jolt and I think that must mean one of two things. I discard the first idea because this isn’t some sappy romance movie where leads are overly dramatic. Nor is this some book written by a third-rate wanna-be writer thinking that a heart jolt in the presence of my fated one is a grand idea. I was once that third rate writer. But have long grown past that. Things like those never work. So that means one thing: I really do have a heart murmur.
    “Not in the mood to talk to a stranger? I promise I’m not a serial killer. Just thought I’d make conversation with a pretty lady before I finally accepted that my date stood me up.”
    I open my mouth to say something, but words desert me. The harder I try and the greater the effort in scrambling for words, the more I realise my brain has abandoned me. She’s sitting there fawning and conjuring up images of the ideal way this night could end. And I’m all for every one of those ideas. Except if she doesn’t flip the switch and get me talking, none of that is possible.
    “I got you.” He stands, takes out his wallet and hands over his credit card to the bartender. “Drinks are on me. Goodnight.”
    Again I try to get my mouth open to speak. To say something, anything to prove that I’m not mute, stupid, a complete idiot or diffident. But looking at him in the full light of the restaurant and not under the dimmed bar light, I imagine that this is how a milk chocolate sexy warrior take-me-as-your-woman-now physique looks. This is how the progeny of Clooney, Damon and Thor dipped in chocolate looks.
    And even in the desertion of my higher functioning senses, I have no intentions of letting him escape. So scrambling to gather my wits and purse, I practically make a mad dash after him, almost knocking over a waiter in the process before I caught him on his way exiting the restaurant.
    As he walks over to the hostess, my feet go after him. He says something to the hostess and she laughs– a coy laugh– responds and then scribbles something on paper. His phone number, I assume. But that doesn’t deter me.
    Trying not to come off as a stalker down a dark alley, I decide to call out to him instead of keeping apace a few behind.
    “Hi! Excuse me, um, hello.” And like the awkward high schooler I am, I give a short courteous nod.
    He stops just under a street light with the glare giving him a halo and I think it’s quite appropriate. He turns and a timid smile tilts his lips. “Hello?”
    “Hmmm?” My focus still lingering on the man.
    “I said hello. Are you okay?”
    “Oh, yes! Uh... you were talking earlier, before in the restaurant?” Am I asking? And what’s up with me pointing like a three-year-old?
    “Yeah, I remember. But I also remember you didn’t seem to be in the talking mood.”
    “Yeah, about that. I was... um... thinking?” Stop asking questions, dummy. “I was preoccupied... thinking. I got stood up too?” Nice recovery, Jodi.
    He doesn’t say anything for a full minute. In that time I stand fiddling with the straps around my pink polka dotted wrap dress, hoping he doesn’t realise I was making a complete idiot out of myself.
    While he decided whether to speak to me,  I got a more accurate study of his physique. He was defined, not sculpted. His upper body, undisguised even through a well–pressed opened black blazer and a crisp button down shirt, reminded me of a carved sculpture. The light blue shirt was snug, without much spare room. It didn’t look tight just well fitted.
    His face appeared tense, stretched void of whatever emotions that had to be fizzing underneath that perfect skin. A change in expression disclosed mischief peeking through as he took a closer step. A fun, relaxed demeanour came closer and I wondered if I became a