Page 3 of Maneater (The Mavens #1)

THREE

JOSIE

I assess his outstretched hand closely. It feels like a test, a challenge, and I’m not the kind of girl to back down from one. I put my hand into his, holding firm as we shake, our eyes locked like we’re in some kind of battle as we shake.

“Josie,” I manage to say, without sounding incredibly breathy.

Heat rolls through me at the sensation of his firm grip in mine, and when it’s over, I miss it.

Afterward, he sits back, putting an arm on the back of my chair, and takes me in.

With the move, the white button-down he’s wearing stretches over his shoulders in a way that would be concerning to the integrity of the stitches if it wasn’t clearly a high-end, expensive piece.

“So, Josie, is this your idea of a fun Wednesday night? Sitting and flirting with men to get free drinks just to see if you can? Seems a bit too easy for you, like shooting fish in a barrel with your…skills.”

I put on my most catlike smile. To others, this would be a violation of our truce, but I take it as a compliment.

“If you’re trying to make me feel bad for playing that guy, you’re out of luck. He flirted first, and he was married.”

“How do you know he was married?”

I roll my eyes but explain all the same, ticking off the reasons on my fingers.

“He couldn’t bother to take care of himself, but his suit was expensive, perfectly fitted, and the tie matched the entire ensemble perfectly.

A woman picked out that outfit. He sat with his phone face down the entire time, and even when it rang, he looked at it and then placed it back face down.

I’d guess his background screen is kids or his wedding picture, and I can guarantee that was his wife calling before he left. Plus, he paid in cash.”

Rowan laughs then, shaking his head, and the sound of it warms me.

“Paying in cash doesn’t mean anything. Maybe he wanted to impress you.”

I shake my head. “Or maybe he didn’t want the charge to show up on his credit card, the statement of which goes to his house.”

“Or—”

He continues to try and argue, but I proceed to drop my most convincing pieces of evidence.

“His cuff links were engraved J+K, and while his name was Joseph, I doubt the ‘K’ was for his last name. And to top it off, he had both an indent on his ring finger and a tan line. The man is married. Trust me, I know these things.”

There’s a beat of silence before he speaks again.

“You got all that in that short amount of time?” If I’m not mistaken, there’s a hint of awe in his words. He’s impressed, and I can’t help but preen.

“You can get a lot of information from someone if you take a moment to read them.”

Carrie comes over to where we’re sitting after filling a large order.

“Hey, Rowan, what can I get you?” she asks. There’s friendliness in her tone, meaning he’s passed the pretty strict test she gives all customers at the bar.

“A whiskey neat. Macallan.”

Typical , I think. I know the type, of course. They’re often my target. Uptight, expensive drinks, judges everyone and anyone around him.

Sounds about right.

“What about me?” he asks.

“You?”

“What do you get from me?” I stare at him, trying to see if he’s playing a game, but I think he’s being serious.

So I do what I do best: assess.

Okay, so maybe it’s what I do second best, because flirting is truly my specialty.

“No ring, no tan line, no indent, not married. You’re here at.

” I check my watch and smile. “Seven thirty on a Wednesday, so you’re either here for travel or are single.

You give major only child energy, though that one is harder to confirm or deny.

There’s a tattoo peeking from the sleeve of your shirt, so a rebel, but not enough to fuck with your chances of working in…

” I tip my chin toward where the sleeves of his button-down are rolled to his elbows and continue to take him in…

“Corporate, for sure. Business, I’d guess.

High-end.” Some things are just instinct, and this is mine working in real time.

“Pretty good,” he admits with a smile.

“Unfortunately, you have shit taste in liquor,” I say, tipping my chin toward where the bartender is reaching for the bottle of his far-too-expensive top-shelf whiskey.

“Not a Macallan fan?”

“Not a whiskey fan.” I smile then, genuine and wide, before shifting once more to face him.

“So how close was I?” A beat passes before he smiles, and fuck, his smile is good, especially now that I can see the full force of it, how it crinkles at the corners of his eyes, how it stretches across his cheeks.

“You’ve been on dates with colleagues and business partners of mine, so how do I know you didn’t get info from them?” I tip my head to the side and give him a pitying pout.

“Aww. It’s so cute that you think I’m asking about you while on a date with another man.

I guess I can add a big ego to my list, huh?

” His jaw tightens, but there’s a spark in his eyes, the slightest tip of his lips that tells me he’s enjoying this back-and-forth just as much as I am. “So does that mean I was right?”

“Pretty dead on,” he says, a bit of a laugh in the words. He’s entertained by me. It fuels me, wanting to push it further.

Carrie slides the whiskey to him, and he thanks her, sliding a black card across the bar back to her.

“Put her other drinks on here. Keep the previous payment as a tip. And a fresh glass, if she wants,” Rowan says.

Something about it is undeniably hot in a way that doesn’t usually do it for me.

The smoothness of the card slide, not only insisting on paying for my next drink, with the assumption I’ll be enjoying it with him, but my previous ones as well.

Not ordering me another glass, but instead offering it.

I smile at him, genuinely, then at Carrie.

“Why not?” I say. “I’ll have another.” Carrie nods, then she shifts her back to Rowan and gives me a thumbs-up that makes me smile. She’s saying he’s a green flag, good luck, girl! in a way only women can silently communicate.

When I have a new glass, I turn back to my bar mate. “What do you do for fun?”

“What?” he asks, clearly thrown by the question.

“Fun. Personal enjoyment? Things that make you happy? Hobbies?”

His brow furrows in clear confusion, and it’s almost cute.

“Why are you asking?” I let out a loud laugh that I know draws attention to me, but the only attention I’m interested in right now is his. It’s so heated and exact, so targeted, I feel like the only woman in the room.

“God, have you ever just made small talk with a woman before?”

He hesitates before a lazy, hot grin slides along his face, and I feel it in my belly.

“I don’t typically need small talk.”

I force myself to talk instead of melting under the mere presence of this man. He surely doesn’t need the ego boost.

“Because you’re so boring, you need to rely on only your looks to get women, got it.” I nod, taking him in exaggeratedly. “That tracks.” We stare at each other, waiting to see who will break first. I win this battle when he lets out a sigh before answering my question, finally.

“I don’t have hobbies. I work.” I give him a raised eyebrow, not buying it, but he shrugs. “You were right: I work in high-end corporate. I enjoy my job, so I do it a lot. Climbing the ladder doesn’t leave a lot of free time for other things.”

“What a way to live,” I scoff, and he shrugs. “Okay, if you weren’t working, what would you be doing?” I say, sitting back and taking a small sip of the bubbly, crisp champagne.

“Not flirting with men in order to get a free drink, that’s for sure.”

“You know, the whole grumpy asshole thing is kind of hot, but I bet you’d get laid more if you dropped it.” It’s a bit of a lie because, unfortunately for me, assholes have always been my type.

And worst of all, I think Rowan could also be my type.

Because, fuck, just look at how his arms look in that button-down.

The fabric is literally straining. I have to actively fight against the urge to fan myself.

Add in the fact that his bared forearms are thick with veins and sinew and muscle that make my mouth water, along with the edges of a tattoo I desperately, in my tipsy state, want to see in its totality, and I’m lost to common sense.

With my words, his gaze goes molten.

He drops the indifference that I now realize was an act and turns his body to me fully, taking me in over the rim of his whiskey glass.

His eyes roam my face, pausing at my lips, then move down, burning over the cleavage I have on display, then the curves of the skin-tight olive-green knee-length dress I’m wearing.

When his eyes shift back to mine, his tongue peeks out, wiping possibly non- existent droplets of liquor from them, and I think I almost come right then and there.

“A real man doesn’t need to play some dashing gentleman to get laid.”

“What does he need then?”

He smiles. It’s devilish and shoots lust through me.

It’s probably a mix of adrenaline from a completed assignment earlier, drinks on a nearly empty stomach, and banter with this man who drives me mad that is creating an undeniable cocktail of desire to shift through me, but for once, I don’t care.

For once, the tight rein I normally hold on my restraint and common sense is loosening.

“Skill,” he states simply.

“I’m assuming you think you have the skill?” I ask with a laugh that’s breathier than I intend.

“Oh, I definitely have the skill.”

It’s an arrogant remark, the kind I should hate. It’s the kind of remark men who rarely have the skill to back up that kind of promise love to say, but for some insane reason, I believe him.

And for some reason, some psychotic reason I can’t quite fathom, I smile.

“I’ve found that actions speak louder than words,” I say.

It sounds huskier even to my own ears, and for once, it wasn’t intentional, not part of some intricate scheme to win someone over, to convince them to tell me what I want to hear.