Page 1 of Tempted to Touch (Straight No More #1)

"PICK AGAIN. I'M begging you."

I'm not above begging. Hell, I'll get down on my knees right here in this sticky-floored bar if that's what it takes to change Ivy's mind. Though knowing her, she'd probably just take a picture and use it as blackmail material later.

"I don't think I will." The shit-eating grin spreading across her face tells me she's enjoying my suffering way too much.

"Ivy..." I try for my best puppy dog eyes, but she's known me too long to fall for that trick.

"I want that one." She juts her chin toward the table across the bar where her chosen prey sits among what appears to be half the city's population.

"And I want to pet a lion, but sometimes the price is not worth the purchase." I take a long pull from my beer, hoping the alcohol might magically transform me into someone who enjoys walking up to large groups of strangers. Spoiler alert: it doesn't.

"It is when you're paying. Come on. You promised ." She pokes me in the ribs, right where she knows I'm ticklish. Evil woman.

I did promise to be her wingman tonight.

It's part of the "Best Friend Contract" or some shit.

Right between "Always tell me if I have food in my teeth" and "Never let me drunk text my ex.

" But in my defense, when I made that promise, I assumed she'd pick normal targets.

You know, guys standing alone at the bar looking lonely and desperate.

Not some dude surrounded by what looks like a bachelor party on steroids.

"Fine." I drain the last of my beer for courage. "But you owe me big time."

Who needs enemies when you have friends like that?

Each step toward the table feels like I'm walking to my own execution.

My palms are sweating like I'm about to give a presentation in high school all over again.

Except this time, instead of boring my classmates with facts about the mitochondria being the powerhouse of the cell, I'm about to interrupt what appears to be the world's most intense discussion about.

.. is that fantasy football? Jesus Christ.

One by one, heads turn in my direction like some horror movie scene where the protagonist realizes they've stumbled into a nest of vampires. And because the universe hates me, Mr. Jawline is the last one to notice my presence.

When he finally does look up, my brain short-circuits. Damn, he's even more handsome up close. Like, unfairly so. Which isn't really a surprise—Ivy doesn't go for scraps. His jaw could probably cut glass, and those eyebrows? They deserve their own Instagram account.

Damn it, Chris. Say something, don't just stare.

"Hi. Hey. Hello." Yeah, I think he got that part. "Can I borrow you for a second?" I gesture vaguely toward the bar, praying he doesn't think I'm having a stroke.

There's a moment of silence that stretches longer than my last relationship. He raises one perfectly sculpted eyebrow —seriously, does he have them professionally done?—and I'm painfully aware that seven pairs of eyes are studying me like I'm some fascinating new species at the zoo.

"Sure," he says finally, and I nearly collapse from relief when the rest of the table returns to their conversation instead of pointing and laughing at the awkward intruder.

He stands up, and... damn, he's even taller than he appeared sitting down. The kind of tall that makes you wonder if he has to duck through doorways. As he leads the way to the bar, I can't help but notice his shoulders are broader than my future prospects.

I throw a quick glance back at my table and catch Ivy's eye. She's practically vibrating with excitement, so I give her a subtle wink. She grins back, looking all kinds of giddy, like she just won the hot guy lottery.

The dude better be worth all this emotional trauma I'm putting myself through.

We find an empty spot at the bar, and I'm just about to launch into my carefully prepared "So my friend thinks you're hot" speech when Mr. Jawline beats me to the punch.

"What are you drinking?"

Well, that's unexpected. I open my mouth to order my usual vodka cranberry (don't judge, it's delicious), but something stops me.

This is reconnaissance, after all. A man's drink choice can tell you a lot about him.

Like how my ex-boss exclusively drank Pbr and, surprise surprise, turned out to be exactly the kind of douchebag who exclusively drinks Pbr.

"Surprise me."

He gives me this look, like he's trying to read my soul through my face, which should be uncomfortable but somehow isn't. Then he turns to the bartender and orders two glasses of whiskey, neat, sliding over his credit card and adding a tip that makes me want to high-five him.

That's three green flags right there.

He takes a sip of his drink and raises one of those magnificent eyebrows at me, waiting.

Right. Focus, Chris. Time for the boyfriend background check, because men are trash. I should know—I am one.

"Are you single by any chance?"

He studies me for a moment. "Tragically," he says with a hint of a smirk.

"Awesome."

Oh god, did I just celebrate his loneliness? Quick, backpedal!

But before I can dig myself any deeper, he extends his hand. "Hayden."

Of course his name is Hayden. He even has a perfect handshake—firm but not trying to crush my bones to assert dominance.

"Just Chris," I manage to say without stuttering.

He lets out this deep chuckle. "So how can I help you, Just Chris?"

"We'll get to that." I straighten up, channeling my inner job interviewer. "First, I need you to answer some questions."

His mouth quirks up at one corner. "And what's in it for me?"

"Let's just say I have an offer you can't refuse. But first," I pause for dramatic effect, "I need to make sure you're worthy."

"And how are you going to determine that?"

"Wouldn't you like to know." Time to start the interrogation. "Why are you hanging around in bars in the middle of the week?"

"It's my week off."

I narrow my eyes. "Off of what?"

"I'm a firefighter."

Holy plot twist! Though now that he mentions it, those arms definitely look like they've rescued their fair share of kittens from trees. The tight long-sleeve shirt he's wearing is doing absolutely nothing to hide the fact that he probably bench-presses cars for fun.

Two Instagram-worthy girls walk by, and I watch him carefully, but his eyes don't even flicker in their direction. At this rate, he's collecting green flags like they're Pokemon.

Well, that settles it. Time to go in for the kill.

"My friend thinks you're cute." The words tumble out of my mouth like a confession, and Hayden's resulting smile could power a small city.

"Cute, huh?"

"The word smokin' might have been used." And honestly? Not an exaggeration. If this guy isn't at least part-time modeling, the universe is wasting prime real estate.

He bites his lower lip in response, and damn, Ivy's going to lose her mind. The man's got more facial expressions than a Disney character, each one more devastating than the last.

"Table in the corner," I say, gesturing behind me. "Red hair."

We both turn to look, and of course Ivy picks that exact moment to do her signature move—the not-so-subtle hair flip she probably learned from watching too many rom-coms. She's pretending to be deeply fascinated by something on her phone, but I've known her long enough to recognize her stealth-mode surveillance.

About as stealthy as a flamingo in a penguin colony, if you ask me.

When I look back at Hayden, his expression has done a complete one-eighty. Gone is the playful smile, replaced by something that looks suspiciously like—

"Oh. No, I don't think so. But thanks."

Excuse-fucking-me? Did this walking GQ cover just reject my friend without so much as a conversation?

Oh hell no .

I'm not usually That Guy , but for my friends? I'll be whatever guy I need to be.

"She's out of your league, anyway," I snap.

' Asshole ', my brain adds.

But instead of looking offended, Hayden's expression shifts to something almost... amused? "I'm afraid we're not playing the same sport."

I narrow my eyes. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Let's just say her friend is more my type."

I automatically glance back at our table, mentally cataloging my other female friends. "Which one?" I ask, even though Sarah and Emma are both taken. Not that their relationship status seems to stop most guys these days.

When Hayden doesn't answer, I turn back to him, ready to throw down. But the challenge dies in my throat when I meet his eyes. Because that look? That's not challenging at all. That's...

Oh.

Oh .

My pulse suddenly decides to audition for a dubstep track, and is it getting warm in here? When did it get so warm in here?

"Wait. Me ?"

Instead of answering, Hayden takes another sip of his whiskey, his tongue darting out to catch a stray drop on his lower lip.

I need to stop staring at his mouth.

"I'm straight," I blurt out, and immediately want to crawl under the bar. Could that have sounded more defensive if I tried?

Hayden chuckles, the sound rich and deep. "Trust me, I can tell."

"How?" The question escapes before I can stop it, and I'm not even sure why I'm asking.

His eyes travel down my body with the kind of slowness that's got to be deliberate, like he's assessing and memorizing every inch. Damn.

"Let's call it an educated guess."

He lets out a deep sigh, and his eyes are still doing that thing—that thorough, unashamed examination of my chest that makes me feel like I'm standing in a spotlight.

I've been checked out before, sure, but never like this.

Women tend to be more subtle about it, all shy glances and quick looks away. This is different. This is... intense.

"Why are you hitting on me, then?" I try to keep my voice flat, but it comes out sounding more breathless than deadpan. Nailed it.

His eyes lock with mine. "Am I?"

Oh shit. Oh shit oh shit oh shit . Way to go, Chris. Maybe I can blame the whiskey for making me hallucinate all those lingering looks and loaded smiles.

The guy was probably just being friendly, and here I am acting like the protagonist of some Lifetime movie about misread signals.

"Sorry," I mumble, suddenly finding my shoes fascinating. Who knew the floor could be so interesting? Look at all those... floor things.

The silence stretches for what feels like three years but is probably closer to three seconds before Hayden breaks it with a laugh that rumbles through my chest like thunder.

"I'm totally hitting on you."

The relief that floods through me is... unexpected. And definitely needs to be examined at some point. Preferably never.

"Yeah?" What the actual fuck am I doing? The word slips out before I can stop it, and I realize I'm grinning. Quick, emergency facial reconstruction! I school my features into something hopefully less dumb and take a strategic sip of whiskey.

But damn if it doesn't feel good. Being wanted. Being seen . Even if it's not... even if I'm not...

"You're a bit out of my league, anyway."

Well, damn. The guy's got more game than a PlayStation convention. I stand there awkwardly for a moment, suddenly very aware that I have no reason to continue this conversation. Mission failed successfully. Time to retreat.

"I'm gonna..." I gesture vaguely toward my table, like a champion of eloquence.

Hayden nods and pushes himself off the bar. He flashes me one last friendly smile—the kind that probably makes flowers grow and angels sing—and turns to head back to his table.

Before I can stop myself, I can taste his name on my tongue. It's bittersweet. "Hayden?"

He looks over his shoulder, and my brain screams at me to shut up, but my mouth has apparently filed for independence.

I take a sharp breath and hesitate for a moment. Should I say it?

Ah, fuck it. Might as well. It's not like I'll ever see him again. "Thanks for hitting on me."

I turn on my heel as I finish the sentence—I neither need nor want a response.

I make my way back to our table, and when I catch Ivy's eye, I realize I'm wearing the kind of grin usually reserved for people who've just won the lottery or found out their ex got food poisoning.

Shit. I quickly try to rearrange my face into something more appropriate for someone who's about to disappoint their best friend.

Damn it.

He would have been perfect.