“I’ll take some of that,” I announce after claiming a stool at the high top counter. I point a finger at the bottle in the bartender’s hands.
The older man, dressed in a Hawaiian shirt and wearing three different colored leis around his neck, looks over at me, then lifts his other hand holding a blender filled with a lime green concoction.
“A margarita?” he asks.
“No. The tequila,” I specify. “Just set the bottle down when you’re finished with it. I’ll take it from there.”
Laughing, he turns away and continues pouring into the blender.
He thinks I’m kidding.
I am definitely not kidding.
My brother is a jerk. My ex-boyfriend is an asshole. I’ve cried way too much over the past week.
I can totally handle a bottle of tequila right now.
“How about you start off with a shot and see how that goes?”
I turn my head at the sound of the deep voice next to me. CJ steps up to the bar, giving me his full attention.
My stomach clenches. I sit up taller on my stool.
Did he follow me over here?
What? Why in the world would he do that? And why would I think it?
Of course he didn’t follow me over here. He’s just thirsty. Look how big he is. He probably has to drink constantly to keep from passing out from dehydration.
I watch CJ continue to stare at me, his eyes bright and eager as he waits expectantly for a response because . . . shit. He asked me a question. What was it? Something about drinking and going somewhere with him?
Oh, my God . . . is that what he asked me? Does he want to take me somewhere?
I lick my lips, swallow whatever saliva I have left as I stare into his eyes, and respond with a confused, “Huh?”
Honestly, I just need clarification at this point. And I might be stalling.
Can I seriously leave with him right now? That’s crazy. I don't even know him.
Holding his beer, CJ leans into the bar, bending his elbow on the counter and putting his weight on it. He looks down at me and smiles. “I don’t know if you can handle that entire bottle, darlin’. You might want to go slow. That shit is harsh.”
I blink.
Darlin’.
God. Is there anything hotter than the way he says that one word? All smooth, southern drawl and sweet to my ears.
CJ’s chest rattles with a quiet laugh. “Are you hearing me?” he asks, tilting his head and grinning now. “You look a little lost, babe.”
Babe.
Shit. He needs to stop. Stop talking and smiling and looking the way he does. I haven’t even had a drink yet and I’m already considering things I should need a drink to consider.
He makes it easy though. Really easy.
Finding some sense, I ignore the rush of heat moving underneath my skin, tip my chin up defiantly and reply, “What makes you think I can’t handle a bottle of tequila? You have no idea what my tolerance is for alcohol.”
“I don’t, but I’m betting you weigh a buck ten soaking wet,” he counters. “I can’t imagine a little thing like you slamming back a bottle and staying upright.”
“I weigh a buck nineteen, actually,” I correct him, giving him some sass with my tone and raising a finger. “And that’s not even when I’m wet.”
My eyes go round immediately after my giant sassy mouth quits moving.
Oh, God.
I did not just say that. Did I?
CJ smiles bigger, his eyes growing wider and brighter as they search my face.
“Now there’s a sweet fucking visual,” he says, looking me up and down. “You wanna explore that topic `cause babe, I am down for that. Just say the words.”
Annnd there’s my confirmation. I said it.
Perfect.
I apparently need a set of rules when being in the general vicinity of CJ Tully.
Rule number one: Do not speak.
Jerking my head straight, I raise up higher on my stool, lean over the counter and snap my fingers at the bartender to get his attention.
“Hey! Tequila!” I shout.
If there is ever a time for alcohol, it’s now. Just stick a bottle in my mouth and shut me up with it.
The man gives me an acknowledging lift of his chin as he finishes up with another customer. I take that and settle back on my stool, watching as he moves down the bar. He grabs the bottle of Patron and pours me a shot.
“Sorry about that. Here you go,” he says, sliding a small plate of lime wedges next to the glass. He looks at CJ. “You want something?”
“I'm good for now, man. Thanks,” CJ replies, lifting his bottle for the man to see.
I don’t waste any time.
I grab the salt shaker, wet the back of my hand and sprinkle a thin layer there, then I lick it off and immediately shoot the tequila, following that up with a lime wedge I suck on until my cheeks pucker.
“Wow,” I cough. God, that’s like breathing fire. I rub at my throat, then I remember who is standing next to me and attentively watching, judging, thinking he knows me and what I can handle, so I lower my hand to the bar and slide the glass away from me, grabbing the bartender’s attention again. “Another please?” I request. “That stuff’s just . . . the best. So smooth, you know? I could drink it all night.”
He tops me off, eyeing me warily as CJ chuckles under his breath.
“What? It is. I just love it,” I announce, turning my head toward the lurking doubter and flashing him a smile. “It also makes you pretty. I read that in a Texas bathroom once.”
CJ brings his beer to his mouth and takes a slow swig, observing me while he does it. Then he lowers the bottle and lick his lips. “Not sure you need help in that department,” he says, his voice serious now. “I think you’re set on looks, babe.”
I watch his eyes wander lower . . . and lower.
My stomach clenches. I suddenly feel like I’m burning up.
I quickly look away and set myself up for shot number two.
Salt. Lime at the ready.
Then I watch my shot go sliding out of reach when CJ pulls it in front of himself after setting down his beer.
He keeps his fingers wrapped around the glass. Watching me. Waiting . . .
“Are you . . . withholding my alcohol from me, Officer?” I ask, letting go of the shaker and lime wedge before swiveling a little on my stool.
CJ’s brow lifts. “You know I’m a cop?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because I’ve seen you around.”
“Really?” He tilts his head to the side, studying me. “And how the hell did I miss you?”
I feel my cheeks warm.
Mm. Must be the alcohol.
“We sort of ran into each other once. Like, literally ran into each other. I was walking into Sam’s Deli and you were heading out. You knocked into me.”
His brows pinch together in confusion. “Are you sure about that? `Cause I’m thinking I’d remember running into you.”
“I’m sure.”
My one and only close encounter with CJ Tully. Not something I’d forget.
Imagine? Yes. Possibly. But I know that isn’t the case here.
“When was this?” he asks.
“I don’t know. A year ago, maybe? You were taking a call on your radio. You were in a hurry. I don’t even think you looked at me. Just apologized and rushed out.” I shrug. “Don’t worry. I didn’t take it personal.”
CJ watches me cross one leg over the other, his brow lifting appreciatively.
“Good to know I didn’t fuck up my chances,” he murmurs.