I slouch down in the bench seat—nestled at a far corner table, drink my Manhattan, and enjoy the moment.
I’ve decided I also love San Francisco, which is where I am now, using my vacation time to visit my sister and her husband. Unfortunately, Ivy and Gray had no desire to come out with me tonight because they have a new baby who wakes up every two hours. Yeah, not going to say I love the sleeping habits of babies, no matter how cute and awesome said baby is.
I suppress a shudder. My life might be frustrating at the moment, and I might be a tinge lonely, but at least I’m not walking around sleep-deprived. Instead I’m listening to a singer crooning about stars, her voice smooth as poured syrup. The cocktail is smoky-sweet on my tongue and warm in my veins. I’m so relaxed at this point that I almost miss the man sitting to my right.
I really don’t know what prompts me to turn and look his way. Maybe it’s because the set ends and my attention diverts from the stage. Or maybe I feel his gaze, because it’s on me, steady and unblinking.
Not one to shy away, I stare back and take him in.
He’s not my type.
First off, he’s huge, as in built like a brick house, with shoulders so wide I’m fairly certain I could perch on one of them and have room to spare. He’s slouched in his chair, so I don’t know how tall he is, but I’m thinking he’s at least six foot four or more, which would make him over a foot taller than me. I hate feeling tiny; I get that enough already without standing next to a super-tall man.
And he has a beard. Not a wild, bushy one, but thick and full, framing the square edge of his jaw. It’s kind of hot. Even so, I am not into beards. I like smooth skin, dimples—a boyish look.
Nothing is boyish about this dude. He’s a strange mix of lumbersexual and pure, broody male. His hair is pulled into a knot at the back of his head, samurai style, which highlights the sharp crests of his cheeks and the blade of his nose.
He might not be my type, but his eyes are gorgeous. I have no idea what color they are, but they’re deep-set beneath strong, dark brows. And even from here, his thick lashes are visible, almost feminine in their length. God, those eyes are beautiful. And powerful. I feel his stare between my legs like a slow, hot stroke.
He stares at me like he knows me. Like I should know him too. Weirdly, he is familiar. But my mind is muzzy with one too many cocktails to figure out why.
Apparently, he gets this because the corner of his wide, lush mouth twitches as if I amuse him. Or maybe it’s because I’m sitting here staring back at him.
He’s a cheeky one, isn’t he? Just as blatant in his appraisal.
So I decide to glare, raising one brow in the same way my dad does when he’s displeased. Having been on the receiving end of that look, I know it’s effective. On most people. This guy? His amusement grows. Though he really only smiles with his eyes and lifts a brow as if to mock me.
And then it hits me: That quietly amused, slightly contemplative expression, I’ve seen it before. I’ve seen him before. I do know him. He’s Gray’s friend and old college teammate.
As if he reads my thoughts, he gives me a slow nod of hello.
I find myself laughing. At myself. He wasn’t checking me out at all. He was waiting for me to recognize him. My fuzzy brain searches for a name.
Dex. He’s Dex.
I give him a nod, inclining my chin. And he rises. Up. Up. Up.
Yep. Tall as a tree.
I remember that he now plays center in the NFL. And though a lot of centers sport a big barrel belly, Dex doesn’t. No, he’s just pure, hard muscle. All of it visible beneath the black tee and faded jeans he’s wearing. All of it moving with the natural grace of a professional athlete as he strides toward me.
“Fiona Mackenzie.” His voice is low, steady, and kind.