She pulled herself out of that very erotic daydream, and met Bash’s teasing gaze. “What?”
“You were going to give me ideas for the perfect drink. That’s what you were writing in your secret notebook, right? I know you like to challenge me.”
She sighed. “Believe it or not, Bash, not everything is about you.”
He feigned a shocked look. “It’s not?”
She rolled her eyes.
“What are we talking about?”
Her best friends, Emma and Jane, grabbed seats on either side of her.
“Chelsea’s hitting on me,” Bash said.
“She is?” Emma grinned at her.
“I am not hitting on Bash. He’s being ridiculous.”
“She’s writing love notes to me in her notebook and won’t let me see them.”
She shot him a glare. “Are you twelve? Stop it.”
Jane looked over at her. “You’re writing love notes?”
She was going to throw her drink at Bash. “No. I am not writing love notes.”
“She doesn’t want you to see them, because they’re for me.”
Emma looked at Bash, then at Chelsea, a questioning look in her eyes.
“He’s full of it,” Chelsea said. “And he’s just giving me a hard time, because that’s what he does.”
Bash slanted her that look again, the one he’d given her that night a few months back. Smoldering. Filled with promise. The kind of look that made her squirm on her barstool.
“I have never given you a hard time, Chelsea.” As if he hadn’t just infuriated her, he calmly asked, “What would you ladies like to drink?”
Jane and Emma both ordered sodas, so Bash poured their drinks, then went off to tend to his other customers.
“He drives me crazy,” Chelsea said.
“He’s funny. And so hot,” Jane said.
“He is not.” Chelsea refused to acknowledge the way Bash’s black T-shirt fit so snugly across his incredible chest, or the bulge of his biceps beneath the hem of the shirt. Or his flat abs, or his incredible ass.
Not that she’d noticed. At. All.
“This is true,” Emma said. “Why haven’t you ever dated him?”
“Bash?” Chelsea slid a look down the bar at him, then at Emma. “Totally not my type.”
Emma laughed. “I think Bash is every woman’s type. Tall, great muscles, killer smile, and those eyes.”
“Phenomenal butt, those tattoos, a goatee. We have discussed your standards being impossibly high, haven’t we, Chelsea?”
Chelsea shifted her attention to Jane. “Like I said. He’s not my type. I’ll just leave it at that.”
“And what exactly is your type, Chelsea?” Jane asked. “Are you holding out for royalty or something?”
She lifted her chin. “No. I’ve actually made a list.”
Emma’s brows arched. “A list? What kind of list?”
“A list of the qualities I’d like my perfect man to have.”
Jane laid her hand on Chelsea’s arm. “Honey. You do realize the perfect man doesn’t exist.”
Chelsea took another look in Bash’s direction, then turned her back to him. “Yes, he does. The perfect man for me does exist. And trust me, it isn’t Bash.”