Page 35 of Boyfriend of the Hour

“Who,” Rochelle said again. “Isthat?”

I sighed. “No one.” I leaned over and kissed her cheek one more time. “Go to work. I’ll tell you later.”

“Queen, you better.” My cousin left, but not without giving Hunt a solid up and down as she walked out.

He didn’t even seem to notice as he made his way to my side of the bar.

I checked the clock behind the register. Then my phone, just for good measure.

It wasn’t even eleven.

He was never at the bar at this time of night. Usually showed up sometime past two, sometimes even three or four, closer to last call.

Instead of the basic, if immaculate, clothing he typically wore, this time, Hunt actually looked a doctor, with a pair of blue scrubs underneath his pea coat and the Hokas I’d seen him in before instead of shiny oxfords. He pushed his glasses up hisnose as he stood at the bar and appraised me up and down, open but somehow without a drop of crudeness.

I had seen the way others noticed me the moment I emerged from Tom’s office. There had been a whistle or two and plenty of men undressing me with their eyes.

Despite the fact that Hunt’s open gaze lacked even a single of iota lewdness, his was the only one that affected me at all. As those brown eyes dragged back up my body, every bit of my skin seemed to flicker in response, like a candle that had just been lit.

Bastard.

“What are you doing here?” I demanded.

He swallowed and glanced around at the steadily growing crowd. Thursdays at Opal were usually somewhat crowded until about one thirty, which was why Tom shelled out for dancers to pump up the after-work crowd. It was probably a very different scene than the doctor was used to when he came in between two and three.

“There was a change at the hospital,” he said, forced to speak louder to be heard over the noise. “I didn’t have to work all night.”

I crossed my arms. “I didn’t ask you why you were here early. I asked why you are here at all. I told you to leave me the fuck alone.”

He didn’t answer right away but took his usual seat at the bar anyway. For some reason, I found it totally infuriating. What fucking game was this guy playing? Did he just get his rocks off all the time by torturing poor patients and bartenders?

Before I could ask him, a man in a blue striped shirt approached the bar. “Hey, gorgeous, can I get two gin martinis with twists?”

I sighed. “Right away.”

Then I stood at the bar for a solid minute, trying and failing to look competent. What went into a martini again?

“Two and a half ounces of gin,” Hunt said quietly enough that only I would hear him, though he appeared to be studying his fingernails. “Half ounce of vermouth. Twist of lemon.”

I scowled. “I knew that.”

He looked up, that gaze still forceful but open. Patient, even.

But he didn’t say anything more.

Dick.

I finished the drinks and took the customer’s card to close him out.

“Can I give you my number too?” he asked when I handed it back to him.

“Only if you want it in the garbage, baby,” I said with a sickeningly bright smile. I knew this type. Men like him loved to be treated like shit by beautiful women, but only if you smiled while you did it.

It worked like a charm.

“Let me know if you change your mind,” he said as he laid an extra twenty on the bar.

I swiped it up before he could change his.