Page 3 of Playboy Pitcher

“Will it raise my score to a three?”

“Maybe,” I say, leaning onto the bar.One drink.What will it hurt? It’s not like I’ll ever see the guy again. “Okay, why the hell not?”

He pins me with a stare so electric, I shiver. “You won’t regret it.”

I already do.

Chapter Two

Rappinghis knuckles on the bar, the guy raises his other hand to get the bartender’s attention—a pretty redhead with tits the size of watermelons. Before he can open his mouth, she’s right there, flopping those things in front of him like he’s the judge at the county fair.

“Another beer, honey?”

“Not this time. A couple Kick in The Balls, please.”

My mouth drops open. “I’m sorry, what the hell did you just order?”

His grin widens. “Kick in The Balls. It’s a shot of Cuervo Gold, Jack Daniels, and Yukon Jack.”

“Are you insane?”

“You don’t like shots?”

“I like shots just fine. I’m not particularly a fan of burning a hole in my esophagus.”

A low laugh rumbles in his throat. “You get to pick the next round. Fair enough?”

Is there a cockier word than cocky? If not, there needs to be because this guy is under the impression that he shits rainbows and farts glitter.

“Who said there’d be a next round?”

Shifting backward, he drapes his arm across the back of my chair, his eyes settling on my chest. “Sinners are winners, baby.”

I follow his gaze to where those exact words are written in white medieval font across my fitted black half T-shirt.Shit.There’s no comeback for that. The best I can do is a wave of my hand and an eye roll.

Which is the adult equivalent of sticking out my tongue.

Fuck. Now I’m thinking about his tongue.

The spiders in my stomach are on a full-on acid trip now, so I busy myself tearing at the corners of another cocktail napkin until he clears his throat.

“So, are you a Yankees fan too…?” There’s an abrupt pause, and I glance up to see his eyebrows drawn together. “I’m sorry. I don’t know your name.”

“You’re right.”

“Come on…”

“You first.”

He hesitates, as if it’s the most ridiculous request he’s ever heard. “Ben,” he drawls, leaning forward with a strange, expectant look on his face.

Is he waiting for a standing ovation?

When I just stare at him, he laughs and shakes his head. “Well, damn, that’s a first. Your turn.”

I almost give him a fake name, but what’s the point? No one here knows me. “It’s Willow, and I’m not necessarily a fan per se, I just live in the city.”

And please remove your hand from the back of my chair. It’s distracting as hell.