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Bishop lifted a brow. “When in Rome. And a water.”
“Water?” she asked.
“On the clock, babe.”
Oh. Right. She was work. “Ah, right.”
“Give me a few, and it’ll be right out.” The bartender smiled and left.
Bishop twisted her way. “Doubtful that rolled-up mushrooms are better than a burger. But yeah, okay, if you’re wrong, I’m grabbing a point in our game.”
“Our game is back on?”
“Never stopped, babe.” His gaze pivoted through the room, landed on her—lingered—then went back on patrol.
Bishop casually rotated on his stool. The night-watch act was methodical and unhurried as it breezed across the bar. A chance observer wouldn’t pick up on his actions, but every few minutes in their conversation, the rotation hit all points of the room and landed back on her face. Silly, but Ella found herself eagerly awaiting his organized, premeditated cycle. Here his glance came. On her again.
Mmmm.Her reaction was unintentional. Everything about him annoyed her. His too-large muscles were obvious, and his hair looked as if she shouldn’t touch it, though she wanted to. The dark room was in shadows, but she could still tell how his green eyes held a fire. One that brightened…
And when his head pivoted, his gaze stayed with her, holding onto her for one micro-blink of a second too long. It felt so familiar… just like it had before, when she hadn’t let go of him, when he’d freely given her that same look but let it linger.
Or was it in her head?
Maybe it was a combination of both. Something had to be uncontrollable when a man was that virile, that manly. All muscle and girth and width, and… strength. Someone like Bishop had to have a deadly, intoxicating amount of testosterone pumping through his veins.
His rotating observation stopped on her again. “Your hair’s longer.” His simple observation made her shiver, prickling until her nipples hardened. “Your skirts are too.”
Ella pushed a stray strand of hair off her cheek. “I like how it feels.”
He rolled his lip into his mouth. “I like them both too.”
It was just conversation, but her lungs took every word and made it hard to breathe. “I—oh, thanks.” She focused on the vodka soda that arrived and gulped a sip, then another.
“Easy, Ella,” Bishop teased. “Bad day and all, but I think we opted for lightly toasted. Not slammed.”
She put it down, and he pushed the drink back an inch. Part of her wanted to elbow him for the alpha dick move. She could take care of herself, thank you very much, and the presumptuous bodyguard act could keep to the parameters of stalkers, not alcohol, except he was correct. She needed to slow down.
“Guess I was thirsty.” Or seeking refuge under the deceptively protective arm of liquid courage.
“Did you want to order a water and…” Bishop grabbed the menu and perused, clearly at a loss for what some items were. “Some of these falafel things as well? The tahini sauce sounds solid. And vegan.”
Might not be a bad idea. “In a few.”
He’d thought about her food preferences. That struck her as sweet.Oh,come on.She was searching for cutesy actions, thinking like she had when they were younger—what a bittersweet memory.
“Right.” He tossed the menu, and she scooted her drink closer, slugging another sip.
“Seriously,” he said. “I promise it’s not going anywhere.”
Correct, and it was also starting to hit her empty stomach. That was both a good and bad thing as she started to relax. “How’d you get stuck babysitting me?”
The bartender placed Bishop’s water in front of him.
“She’ll have a water also,” Bishop added.
“Bossy.” She eased back, dropping her head and letting the liquor warm her from the inside out. “But thanks.”
The effect was marvelous, if just for the moment. He was right, though. She needed to chill, lest she puke on his jeans.