Smart Man by Janet Eckford

 
    Attraction…
     
    Taking a sip from my dirty martini, I watch him from across the bar. The way his back muscles tense and release as he bends over the pool table makes my fingers tingle at the thought of running my tongue over all of that exquisite maleness. He isn’t one of the regulars at my favorite watering hole. When he leans back up from acing his shot, I can see the sharp angles of his face and the clean, firm line of his jaw. Nope. Definitely not one of the regulars.
              A man this beautiful I would have remembered and quietly obsessed about with my best friend. Looking down at my cell phone, I notice I haven’t gotten any new texts from said best friend. It’s been about thirty minutes since Karen sent off a frantic text saying she was running late to our weekly girl’s night. Sipping at my martini again, I decide with such nice scenery, I can’t be that mad.
              Shifting to re-cross my legs, I freeze at the sensation of being watched. Looking up, I notice Mr. Sexy Pool Player is leaning against the wall, staring in my direction. When his kissable lips form a crooked smile and one of his eyebrows lifts in a slight arch, I know he was most definitely staring at me. Squirming on the inside, I keep my outer visage calm and collected. It’s a technique I’ve mastered over the years as a mediator for the Los Angeles County Courts. The amount of complete fuckery I’ve heard in a given day requires I have the best of the best poker faces.
              Letting my eyes travel over his well-honed body, I make eye contact with him and mirror his expression. When his crooked smile blossoms into a full smile of straight white teeth and utter mischief, I feel my body warm with excitement. I’ve seen enough bad boys in my line of work, and I can tell he’s the baddest of the bad. That part of me that I keep a tight rein on, the one that whispers indecent little pleas of release, unfurls and awakens at the challenge standing across the bar from me. Shifting to turn my back to him and face the bar, I flag down the bartender with a flick of my now empty martini glass.
              “Another dirty?” he asks with a grin.
              He’s new, cute, attentive, and I approve. Karen and I have gone through our fair share of good bartenders and bad bartenders at this particular dive bar, and it looks like we’re on an upswing again.
              “The dirtier the better,” I reply with a wink.
              Blushing slightly and nodding his head, he starts making my drink. Though I watch him intently, I still haven’t forgotten about Mr. Sexy Pool Player staring at me from across the bar. I can practically feel the heat of his gaze on my body. That part of me, the wanton part, revels in the attention of the handsome man. In the dim light of the bar I can tell he’s tall, but once a man is over six feet, the inches all seem to become arbitrary for me. They break down into tall and really tall. Mr. Sexy Pool Player is inching up on the really tall end of the spectrum. The dark fitted shirt he wears accentuates the lean musculature of his chest, and his jeans are fitted in just the way I like on a man. It’s his face that intrigues me, though. I can make out features enough to know they are attractive, but the play of shadows doesn’t allow for anything distinct enough for me to truly make out his face.
              It’s an invitation for exploration, and as I smile at the bartender when he places my drink in front of me, I wonder how I’m going to accept it.
              “Gin or vodka?” a deep baritone whispers into my ear.
              Taking a sip of my drink, letting the textured liquid roll against my tongue, I swallow and look up at the object of my curiosity and smirk.
              “Vodka,” I reply, not turning immediately around.
              He makes a sound in the back of his throat that is both