Hands on her hips, she walked to half-court, barefoot, still in her dress, but he was wearing shiny lace-up shoes that wouldn’t grip the cement any better and the uniform was too beautifully tailored to allow for great mobility. He checked the ball to her, and she drove toward him, holding nothing back, using shoulders and hips to make him give ground, give ground, or foul her. He crowded close, forcing her to fight for every inch of the court. Suddenly she switched to a frontal assault, low to the ground, dribbling with her right, then her left, then her right again, the crossovers slow and easy to follow, waiting for him to let down his guard.
He did. She feinted right. He bought it, committing his weight, a steal all but his when she bounced a wicked crossover, and left him stumbling over his own feet. Two big steps, one soaring jump, her skirt flashing vibrant and raw in the streetlight, and she kissed the ball against the backboard for an easy two.
Jamie’s laughter tumbled into the air. When she turned around, he was standing where she’d left him, hands on his hips, eyes gleaming with love, admiration, delight.
“Boom,” he said. “That’s what I’m talking about.”
“All night long,” she said in her best trash-talking voice as she dribbled back to the top of the key. “I will own you all night long. You’re going to lose, Hawthorn.”
He chuckled again, rich and full, and walked right up to her, wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her in. “As long as we’re playing together, I’ve already won.”
Welcome to Eye Candy, the East Side’s hottest nightclub where the bartenders are hot, the cocktails are fancy, and danger lurks just under the surface …
READ ON FOR A PREVIEW OF UNDER THE SURFACE!
ONE
Sex on a stick, Lord, that’s all I need … walking, talking sex on a stick. If he can mix a decent drink, so much the better.
Eve Webber shifted two boxes of limes to the far end of the bar and considered apologizing to the Almighty for making the risqué request. Not a single lesson in eighteen years of Sunday school covered petitioning the Lord for a good-looking man. But with a location on the edge of Lancaster’s struggling East Side and nine people depending on her for their paychecks, Eye Candy’s success depended heavily on gorgeous male bartenders who lived up to the bar’s provocative name. She’d take all the help she could get.
“Drop dead sexy, knowledgeable, with just a smidgen of honor. That’s all I need,” she muttered.
She picked up her iPhone and scanned for chatter on Facebook and Twitter. A couple of posts from women in her target market, young professionals, about meeting up at Eye Candy after work, which was very welcome news. She replied, tweeted her drink specials, then set the phone in the portable speaker unit for background music while she finished prepping the bar for the evening rush.
The heavy steel door swung open. She looked up from the limes and saw a lean figure silhouetted in a rectangle of thick August sunlight that cloaked his head and shoulders, shrouding his face.
“Chad Henderson?” she said, and if her voice was a little breathier than usual, well, he’d caught her off guard.
“Yes, ma’am.”
The two words ran together, automatic yet without a hint of deference, not a drawled opening to flirtation. “Come on in,” she called, consciously steadying her voice.
She moved out from behind the bar to meet him. He didn’t offer any of the small talk applicants often used to connect with her, so she leaned against the end of the bar and watched him scrutinize Eye Candy’s interior as he wove his way through the tables toward her. The walls were black-painted cinderblock, and tables and stools surrounded the oak-parquet dance floor on three sides; her DJ’s booth comprised the fourth side and backed one short wall of the rectangular room. The solid oak, custom-crafted bar she’d purchased for a pittance at a bankruptcy auction ran along the other short end of the rectangular room. The place was empty and echoing now, but in three hours couples would pack the dance floor and every table would be occupied.
Chad stopped in front of her and slid the earpiece of his Revo sunglasses into the V of his shirt, exposing surprisingly hard ridges of pectoral muscle, given his lean frame.
“Eve Webber. I own Eye Candy.” She offered her hand and got a firm grip in return as she took inventory. Maybe six feet tall, because her heels brought her to five ten and their eyes were just level. He wore running shoes, faded jeans too loose to draw attention to anything underneath, and a dark green button-down with the top two buttons undone. Reddish-brown hair long enough to show finger-combing ridges curled at his ears and shirt collar, and hazel eyes met Eve’s assessing look without a hint of expression.
“Thanks for the interview.”
Definitely not anxious, or eager, or any of the other adjectives normally used to describe a job applicant in a tough economy, but she liked the cool confidence. It made him very watchable. Some women liked to flirt openly with a sexy-yet-safe bad boy. Others wanted to watch, and wonder. He wasn’t exactly sex on a stick, but if he had any skill behind a bar at all, Chad would round out the eye candy quite nicely.