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But it’s those eyes. Eyes the color of the sky just before it rains, a gray area between blue and steel, that stops me. Stop me from words, from smiling, from doing anything but gaping up at him.
“Hello Isabelle,” he says.
Crickets. I mean, I got nothing at this point. So he goes on.
“Is that a Negroni? I like it. I’ll take one of those.” He nods at the waiter before sitting down in front of me.
“It's called a Jane Russell here.” And I have to cross my legs because while my mouth is dry as the Saraha, my panties are like the Niagara Falls.
Chapter 2
Ethan
Idon’t give a fuck about Negronis.
They’re sour. Bland. Too much of a bite. And as I walk into Backporch and stalk straight back to my usual table, my eyes land on Izzy so hard and so fast my heart slams into my ribcage so hard it knocks the wind out of me.
Now there’s something I’d like to bite.
Suddenly I am wishing my pants weren’t so fitted. Should have gone with the looser slacks, more Sinatra and less Magic Mike. But it’s too late for that so I slide my mouth into a quarter of a smirk (not too much but enough) and offer more kindness than I’m feeling to the waiter.
“Is that a Negroni? I like it. I’ll take one of those.”
The kid shuffles off and I slide into the booth seat across from her, our knees brushing in the process. It’s more inevitable than intention, what with being just under six-foot-five and all. But I also don’t avoid it. She’s wearing a dress. A dress that is hugging the hips she’s sprouted since the last time I saw her. Hips that are symmetrical with the rack that is so superbly visible over the top of the table, held in only by the grace of what is most likely a strapless bra because her dress is shoulderless.
Strapless bras equal easier access. And oh how those tits look like they want to be freed…
“Hello Isabelle.” I say as I situated myself in my seat.
Izzy’s mouth twitches in an irritated smile. She hates when people call her Isabelle. Always has. Even as a kid, because yes I have known her that long, she would unhinge like a chihuahua any time someone said the name.
“My name is Izzy, not Isabelle.”
Being my best friend’s daughter, I enjoyed lovingly teasing her and would respond with, “Nice to meet you Izzy-Not-Isabelle.”
She’s just as unamused as she was back then. Except now, she’s not a kid. Now, as she sits in front of me in a floral dress that hugs all her curves, curves I’ve never seen before, with reddish blond hair that curls around her heart shaped face and bright blue eyes that have me searching for the nearest emergency defibrillator just in case, Izzy-not-Isabelle is not the same girl I remember whatsoever.
She’s a woman.
And goddamn.
“Hello Ethan,” she says with enough salt to rim a margarita glass and I fight letting my smirk shift to a smile.
“You look good.” I say, browsing the small bite menu. But like I said, there’s only one thing I want to bite right now. Those lips. Maybe her soft powdery neck. Perhaps a thigh…
“Why are we here, Ethan?” Her tone is sharp, sharp enough the last work is a literal dagger. Still feisty as ever. But now? It’s less immature and entitled and more of a challenge…
I do love a challenge.
“Isabelle, you seem tense.” I say as the waiter sets down my drink and walks away.
“Izzy,” she snaps, stirring her drink with the cocktail straw more vigorously than necessary.
“That’s right.” I smile, leaning back into the booth and reaching for my own drink. I take a sip, not letting on that I’m not a fan of snake venom flavored booze. I’m more of a bourbon man. I like it smooth, strong, sweet and thick. Like honey. Like thighs…
I need to focus.
Izzy is my best friend’s only daughter and she’s half my age. If my math is right, and it is, she just turned thirty this year.