Page 4 of Playboy Pitcher

He doesn’t. In fact, he leans closer, andholy shit, he smells amazing. Not like the overpowering cologne most guys wear. His scent is like an intoxicating blend of brand-new leather resting in a bed of fresh-cut grass.

And sex. Like pheromone, knee-buckling kind of sex.

“So, Willow, what’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?”

I groan. “That line isn’t any better, Ben.”

“It isn’t a line.” My anxiety spins on a fiery merry-go-round as those icy eyes slide from my ankle boots to my leather miniskirt, up to my face. “I really want to know.”

I’m not stupid. I know what this guy wants, and it’s not my resume. But I also know he isn’t going to relent, so I have to placate him or cause a scene.

I let out a resigned sigh. “I just drove in yesterday. I have a…” Gritting my teeth, I force a smile. “I have meetings.”

“You drove from New York to West Palm for meetings?” I can see the questions brewing in his eyes, so I cut him off before he can ask.

“I don’t like to fly.” As suspected, Ben opens his mouth to begin the inquisition, but I hold up a hand, cutting him off. “And before you ask, my car is at the hotel. “Being cooped up in a hotel room dialed my anxiety up to an eleven, so I took a long walk to clear my head.” I motion a hand down the length of my napkin tapered body. “Obviously, I didn’t expect to get caught in a monsoon.”

“Couldn’t you have just called Uber?”

“Probably. If I hadn’t left my phone back at the hotel along with my wallet and ID.”

Ben flashes a teasing grin. “And of all the gin joints…”

I scowl at him. “Don’t be cute. This isn’t fate. This is West Palm Beach. And this”—I wave my hand around at the pink abomination—“baris the only place I could walk into looking like this,” I say, motioning down the length of my rain-soaked body, “and not get tossed out on my ass.”

Thankfully, Ben doesn’t have a chance to grill me anymore because Melon Tits arrives with our liver destroyers, a bewildered look on her face. I almost feel sorry for her. Short of crawling over the bar and bopping him on the head with those things, she has no chance of gaining his attention.

I’m just as confused as she is.

Ben hands me a shot that smells like straight diesel fuel. “Well, here’s to your meetings going well.”

Forcing a smile, I raise my drink. “To signing on the dotted line.” Instead of clinking his glass, I toss the shot back, caring about nothing but forgetting.

Yesterday. Today. And especially tomorrow.

As it turns out, I should have cared.A lot.

I slam the empty shot glass onto the bar, coughing and sputtering as my insides erode away. “Holy…shit…that…” I gasp, another coughing fit overtaking me.

“Kick in The Balls is good stuff, huh?”

“I should kickyouin the balls,” I wheeze, half expecting a ball of flames to fly out of my mouth. “This is exactly why your game is stuck at a two.”

The corners of his eyes crinkle as he removes his hat and tosses it on the bar. Mesmerized, I watch, biting the inside of my lip to suppress a moan as he carelessly runs a hand through those thick dark strands.Good God, the man has sex hair.That wild, twisted-every-which-way, just-fucked, fist-pulled, sex hair.

I’m in trouble.

“So, Willow, what’s your story?”

“I don’t have a story.”

“Everyone has a story. I bet I can guess yours.” Tilting his head, he squints. “Hmmm, a New Yorker in town for some secret meetings. Well, the blue hair and tattoos disqualify you from running Wall Street. Your style is bold and slightly frightening.” His gaze roams over my platform ankle boots, leather mini-skirt, and half-tee. “You’re the artsy type with a magnetic personality and the voice of an angel.” A lopsided smile tips the corner of his mouth. “You’re a rock star.”

“The voice of an angel?” Despite my shitty mood, I snort. “Oh, Benny boy, that just shot your game back to a one point five.”

He winces. “Took it over the line with that one, huh?”

“Little bit.”