Rough and Tumble Read Online Free Page B

give him that I-see-you-but-I’m-not-acknowledging-it look that she’d given the older bikers earlier. Habit. A survival mechanism, because there was no good reason this guy should be talking to her, grinning at her, nodding his chin to the shot of whisky on the bar that he’d obviously ordered.
    Cool.
    No, yikes.
    Both reactions blasted through her at the same time, and she wasn’t sure if she was actually
cool
ing or
yikes
ing right now. Thanks to her whisky buzz, she stood there deciding.
    That only seemed to encourage him. “I noticed you like this stuff, so I took the liberty.”
    â€œI’ve probably had enough,” she said. “But thank you.”
    Why wasn’t she moving along?
    â€œYou haven’t had the top-shelf brand,” he said.
    She had no idea what she’d been drinking, but she shouldn’t be having any part of this so-called improvement.
    â€œThat’s really very nice of you,” she said. Still standing there.
Feet . . . help?
    â€œIt’s obvious,” he said, “that you’re not much of a whisky person. Even with your back turned, I could tell you were making faces while you were drinking it, like Jane Austen trying out spiked tea.” He paused. “Or whatever her name was.”
    Now she really couldn’t move. Her nethers were too busy getting all warm and tingly again.
    Had he just made a reference to the Austen? Guys like him weren’t supposed to throw names like that around, even if he’d tried to backtrack.
    He lightly kicked at the stool next to him with his weathered biker boot, pushing the seat away from the bar in an invitation to sit.
    The whisky had hit her enough by now that sitting down and having another one with this total and inappropriate stranger seemed like a not-so-bad idea. She was on vacation, right? When would she ever see him again? Never.
    Sounded wonderful to her.
    But she’d always believed that when a guy bought you a drink, he was expecting something in return. Drinks are investments—especially if it’s a top-shelf whisky.
    Nonetheless, she glanced over at Arden, who’d gotten into an animated conversation with the tourists in the middle of the bar, as well as the old bikers, who’d crept over to them from the end. Somehow,
that
had happened. Molly even thought she heard the handlebar-mustache guy mention bluefin tuna and how it’s fished and processed. What? She didn’t know what kind of surreal dimension this saloon inhabited, but it was clear that Arden wasn’t available to pull her away from trouble down here. Same with ginger ale–drinkin’ Sofia, who’d relocated to one of the tables and was locked into her phone, texting again while her iPad lay beside her, forgotten and forlorn.
    When Molly looked back at the biker guy, it was like there was a bad-boy magnet inside of her, pulling her toward him and those tempting wide shoulders under that white T-shirt. He had a loose way about him as he lounged there, elbows still braced behind him on the bar.
    Should she
really
offend him by brushing him off? Would he cut her if she did? Was that what bikers did to their bitches when they displeased them?
    He raised an eyebrow, jerked his chin at the stool as he turned around in his seat, reaching into his back jeans pocket to pull out a lighter for the pack of cigarettes in front of him on the bar.
    She found herself wandering toward the stool, but she didn’t sit down. It was a miracle that her hand didn’t shake as much as the lining of her belly was trembling while she reached for the shot glass.
    Like a stupendous tool, she sniffed at the whisky.
    He laughed, low and rough, as he plucked a cigarette from his pack. “Just drink it.”
    Why not?
She took a sip, anticipating that lighter fluid taste she’d gagged down earlier. But this experience was so different. This was smooth, and she drank a bit more.
    â€œTullamore