Page 3 of Fair Trade (New York Monarchs #2)

I lean back, reaching for our drinks. He follows my lead, only to stop short as he sees me grab the tequila.

Confusion mars his face as I take a long, sensual sip of the smooth drink, never breaking eye contact.

“Well, Tucker, you got one thing right.” I pierce him with the same icy glare only a woman constantly questioned and harassed while working in the sports industry could master.

“You can only imagine the things I can do. And if you don’t walk away in the next five seconds, you’ll get to see first-hand how much of a ball buster I can be. ”

He falters for a moment, looking for a way to backpedal, I’m sure, but I don’t give him the chance.

I make eye contact with the bartender as I say, “Put his fruity drink on my tab.” She grins in my direction and nods before sending him a dry look.

Slack-jawed, he stares at me. The turn of events might be too much for his peanut brain, because he hasn’t moved a muscle.

I roll my eyes— ah, that feels good —and straighten in my stool as I face the bar.

He shakes his head, probably trying to bounce his two brain cells together to form a sentence, but I’m over this interaction.

Good thing I always leave my vibrator charged.

I lift the tasty tequila to my lips as I lock eyes with him for what I hope will be the last time ever. “Hey, Tucker?”

“Ah, um, yeah?” He blinks.

“Get fucked.” I nod my head toward the exit and take another sip, keeping all my focus on my drink while ignoring the low mutters of “sorry” and “but you didn’t need to be such a bitch.”

Again, nothing I haven’t heard before.

The bartender—Jess, according to her name tag—stops in front of me and laughs. “Damn, that was satisfying to watch. Can you stay for the rest of my shift and do that a few more times, please?” she pleads, batting her eyelashes.

I tilt my head from side to side. “Tempting, but it’s probably not a good idea to loiter at a hotel bar.” I wiggle the glass in my hand. “A few more of these, and I might turn this fine establishment into a titty bar.”

A choking cough breaks out at the other side of the bar. We both look at the man who was most likely eavesdropping on us and didn’t see my boob joke coming.

Whoops.

When he lifts his gaze and gives us a soft “My apologies,” I almost forget to breathe.

Jesucristo.

That man is the embodiment of sex on a stick without the weird porno vibes. And did I detect an accent? Because accents make you 15 percent hotter. I don’t make the rules. Actually, yes. I just did.

Short, black hair, upkept by a neat fade.

With an expertly trimmed, barely there beard framing his chiseled face.

His glass of amber liquid seems five sizes too small in his large hands.

Decadent brown skin that seems kissed by the Caribbean sun shining over my loved ones in the Dominican Republic or a nearby island.

He must be older than me, but I’m guessing not by much.

Muscles pushing his well-tailored suit to its limits.

And even though he’s sitting, there is no question this man is well over six feet. Something a woman like me can appreciate, since I’m five nine and apparently a giant compared to all the petite women in my family.

I shake my head, reminding myself that I am officially off this ludicrous merry-go-round of entertaining cocky men for the night, and tear my gaze away from the man I’m sure is the star of many wet dreams.

Maybe he’s an actor or something?

“Jess, I’m going to call it a night. Can I get the bill when you get a minute?” I ask as I try to keep my eyes from veering back to the gorgeous stranger.

Jess smirks while taking an innocent tone. “It would bring me no greater pleasure than to comp your drinks for the night, but unfortunately, your tab has already been taken care of.”

I raise a confused brow, and she nods at our sexy eavesdropper.

I inwardly groan as I scold my rising libido.

No. We do not need to accept free drinks from sexy strangers, I quickly remind myself.

I begrudgingly look in his direction, for the essential reason of letting him know that I can pay for my own drinks, only to find his amused gaze already on me.

I open my mouth to speak, but he lifts his hand and beats me to it.

“You don’t have to show me your tits,” he says with a straight face.

I’m momentarily stunned into silence.

What in the ever-loving fuck? “Excuse me?” I ask incredulously.

He smirks, then sighs dramatically. “Well, now that you’ve given away the fact that all it takes is a few tequilas to set those puppies free, I guess the mystery is gone.” He attempts to hide his grin behind his drink before taking a sip.

Wait. Is he…?

“You—You’re fucking with me. I think?” I let out a dry laugh.

He rolls his eyes playfully. “Lady, I’m not fucking you either. God, what ever happened to the art of dinner and a movie?”

A zap of energy runs up my spine at his cheeky banter. Something I never see enough of lately with city boys. And now I’m certain I’ve picked up a slight British accent, which is doing my panties no favors.

I point at myself. “No. No, you see. You’ve got this all wrong. I’m not fucking you . Which is why there is no need for you to pay for my drinks. I’ve got it handled.” I drain what’s left of my drink to drive home my point.

He shakes his head slightly. “Well, you see, that’s where you’re mistaken.

” He pauses, and I gesture for him to carry on.

“I believe in fair compensation, and for the last two hours, you have been my main source of entertainment. Billing those three drinks to my room is the least that I can do.” He shrugs.

“Entertainment? Care to elaborate?”

His tongue runs over his bottom lip, and I forcefully refrain from biting my own. “At first, I truly felt sorry that you couldn’t be left in peace to just stare at your martini, which, for the record, is a very sad sight to see, but I digress.”

Do not laugh. Do not laugh. Don’t you dare fucking laugh, girl.

He continues, “But little did I know that you were more than capable of not only holding your own but actually bringing them down a peg in the process. Truly a work of art. I got drinks and a show, although the experience would have been better had you enunciated your words more.” He fake scolds.

“You don’t say.” I tilt my head, face serious, feigning that I’m taking his silly critique into consideration.

“Solid eight out of ten. Although the ‘get fucked’ was brilliantly delivered. I’ll bump up your score to ten for that line alone.” He points his drink in my direction, then elegantly tips back the rest of it like I did moments ago.

I couldn’t hold back my goofy smile if I tried, and his teasing eyes take on a softer look for a moment before Jess interrupts us. “Are you guys gonna keep eye fucking each other from across my bar, or is one of you switching seats?”

I keep my eyes locked on his. “Sorry, Jess, but I’m fine right where I am. Besides, I’ve been told I need to learn how to enunciate my words better. Why not work on my voice projection while I’m at it?” I taunt.

This time it’s his smile that’s unrestrained. And damn it, it has my heart fluttering out of my chest.

He makes a fuss about standing, and like I assumed, the man towers over everyone at the bar.

He grabs his empty glass and makes his way toward me as if his steps weigh on him tremendously.

Then he makes a show of pulling the barstool next to me away before he takes a seat.

“Guess one of us has to be the mature one.” He sneaks a quick wink at Jess while not so subtly nodding his head toward me.

“Yeah. Uh-huh,” I say. I twirl the empty glass in my hands, wishing I still had some of my drink left so I’d have something to busy myself with.

We stare at each other unapologetically, not rushing to fill the silence with small talk.

I would never be so brazen as to check someone out too obviously, but given that the three duds who approached me tonight all struck out, and given that I have no intention of taking this little banter further than saying good night in ten minutes, I allow myself to indulge.

I’m new at this having a bank account that isn’t dangerously close to overdrafting thing, so I wouldn’t be able to name his watch if my life depended on it, but I know it looks expensive.

He most definitely has a tailor, and the suit is probably Italian.

This knowledge is strictly from the mafia romance novels I read.

This close, I can smell his cologne, and I swear it’s doing things to me. I wish I knew what scents like sandalwood or bergamot smelled like, because maybe then I could describe what this sexy as fuck man smells like and explain the number it’s doing on my pheromones.

I shift in my seat so I can cross my legs and hopefully smother my horniness with the strength of my thighs.

His eyes immediately lock on the motion, and he has the gall to smirk, as if he knows exactly what I’m doing.

I eye him suspiciously as he waves Jess over. “I’d like to order for us.”

Jess and I both make no attempts to hide our groans, and I swear I hear her mumble, “And to think he was doing so well.”

Oddly, our reactions seem to please him as he says, “Could you bring us two waters, please? And absolutely no fruit in hers.” He hooks his thumb over his shoulder at me.

“Not even a lemon. Wouldn’t want to tempt her to use it as a weapon and squeeze it in my eye as revenge for the male population failing so pitifully. ”

Jess laughs before she walks off, but my amusement turns into sober curiosity.

How does he know I hate the idea of fruity drinks? Is he really that perceptive, or was it a wild guess? Am I reading too much into a freaking glass of water, or am I missing something else completely?

There has to be an angle here. In this day and age, when getting a man to text you back seems like a herculean effort, no guy is this smooth.

“For the love of God, I’m not a piece of meat, you know. A little discretion while ogling would be the polite thing to do. At the very least ask if this is my good side.” He huffs, barely containing the smile playing on his lips.

I clear my throat. “Not ogling. Studying.” I pause. “Like a rare form of fungus.”

He snorts, eyes widening at my statement, and his own reaction, it seems. “I beg your pardon?”

“You know, some people think fungus and picture the ointment their uncle has to apply between his toes, while others think of truffles and pay top dollar for it. The eye of the beholder and all that jazz, I suppose.”

“Do I even want to know which category I land in?”

Jess places two waters in front of us, then quickly adds a tiny umbrella to his. She winks at me before hurrying away.

I raise my glass. “Don’t worry, you seem like the bougie kind.”

He shakes his head while eyeing my raised glass. “You know it’s bad luck to toast with water, right?”

I bite my bottom lip while narrowing my eyes at him.

“Don’t tell me you believe in bad omens.

” I nod at his glass, and he slowly lifts it.

“It’s okay if you’re a little superstitious.

I’ll make sure to keep eye contact as we toast. Even though you have zero intentions of sleeping with me, it would be a shame to condemn you to seven years of bad sex. I’m not a monster, after all,” I tease.

He tips his glass, eyes locked on mine. “And what should we toast to…”

I hesitate, because this is the moment where I should tell him my name.

But the last time I tried to exchange pleasantries with a man, it ended with me telling him to get fucked, so I’m not exactly inclined to have my most exciting night out in months be tainted by talking about Luisa álvarez, New York Monarchs’ GM.

So I shake my head instead. “No names.”

His eyebrows almost hit his hairline. “Pardon?”

“I’m trying to reclaim that mystery, remember? No names needed to toast, last I checked.”

He seems genuinely unsettled by my statement. So much so that I almost say to hell with it and give him my first name. “And I suppose you don’t want to know my name either?” His words spill out slowly, as if assessing them as they leave his lips.

I nod, and he searches my face tentatively, as if hoping he can decipher my intentions.

After a moment, he must find what he’s looking for, because he leans in closer and whispers, “I’d like to renegotiate the terms after this toast, but for now, I accept.” He clinks his glass against mine. “To us—”

“To us.”

“For doing a spectacular job of pretending we don’t want to rip each other’s clothes off.”

A small gasp leaves my lips as he reaches under my seat and drags it closer to his. “Chin-chin, or get fucked, love.”