Eros (Contemporary Mythos Book 4)

Adrian solidified our incompatibility when I told him it wasn’t going to work out by stomping his foot like a two-year-old and announcing he wasn’t paying our bill—one huge bullet dodged. Contestant number two, Michael, sat across from me, checking his black as midnight hair in the reflection of his spoon for the third time since he sat down. I’d been trying to give him the benefit of the doubt because if I looked that pretty, I’d continually check myself out too.

He lowered the spoon and grinned at me, revealing perfectly straight white teeth. If he were in a toothpaste commercial, the corner of his mouth would’ve sparkled. They were radiant in contrast to his golden tanned skin. “Sorry, I just want to look good for you.”

I half believed him, but the way he said it made my toes curl.

“Careful now. If you looked any more delicious, I might have to eat you up.” I made grabby gestures.

What in the name of Tom Cruise? Did I seriously just say that?

I peered into my drink and gave a nervous chuckle.

His smile widened, accentuating his chiseled jawline, and he leaned back in the chair, hanging one arm off the back. He shoved his thin, downward slanted nose into his glass as he took a sip.

I leaned forward, concentrating on the color of his eyes. “Are your eyes purple?” I cocked my head to one side, not thinking about how creepy I must’ve looked—and sounded.

He pressed his forearms to the table, bringing our faces so close the tips of our noses almost brushed. “Would you like a better view?”

A lump formed in my throat as I stared at his eyes. They were brown, but from certain angles, took on a violet tone.

“I’ve never seen eyes like yours.”

His smile still hadn’t faded. “Apparently, I have a unique and specific amount of melanin in my irises. It makes me extra special.”

“Or a mutant,” Eric voiced from beside us.

I jumped and threw my hands up. “I seriously need to put a bell on you or something. How do you do that?”

Eric folded his arms. “Do what?”

“Pop up inexplicably out of nowhere.”

“I flew over here. My wings are invisible.” He kept his expression neutral.

Clearly bored of my verbal boxing match with the bartender, Michael picked up the spoon, checking for any rogue hairs that somehow escaped a half bottle of gel. I watched him from the corner of my eye. His lips took on a tiny pucker with every angle he turned the spoon.

“Would you look at that? There’s a smudge. Let me grab you a new one, sir.” Eric yanked the spoon from Michael’s grasp.

Michael froze with his hands out at his sides. Those pouty, kissable man-lips curled like Elvis Presley.

Giving him no time to question or protest, Eric turned on his heel and headed back to the bar.

Already halfway off my chair, I said, “I’m going to grab another drink. You want anything?”

“Sure. A beer would be great, but Elani, I can get it. You don’t have to—” He rose, and I pressed a finger to his lips.

My stomach twisted, feeling the smooth texture of his skin against mine. Alcohol-induced touching had never been in my skill set. “You don’t have to stand on ceremony for me. But I appreciate the gesture.”

He smiled against my finger and gave it a tiny peck. “I await your return then. Thanks.”

I turned away, mouthing the words “oh my God” to myself and trying not to jump up and down. Eric leaned casually against the back counter, the spoon resting on the bar behind him.

“Listen. I really like this guy. Don’t muddy it up with your antics.” I rolled my shoulders back, attempting to make myself look taller.

“No, you don’t.” The words flowed off his tongue with the confidence of a three-time-winning spelling bee champ. “You like his face.”

“Excuse me?”

He pressed his large hands against the mahogany in front of me. “You heard me. That guy is fuller of himself than the singer of Apollo’s Suns.”

“Who also has a pretty face. What’s your point?”

“My point is that I took away his mirror, and he seems to have found another one.”

I whipped my head around, and my face fell. Michael stood in front of the front window, turning his head from side to side, watching how the overhead lights shadowed over his jaw. He was so pretty, though. I whirled back around, pointing at Eric, narrowly poking him in the eye.

“You’re messing with me. Trying to make me lose this bet.”

He pushed his shirt sleeves up. “No. Because when I win, I want to know it had nothing to do with my interference. I’m simply making conversation.”

“You give me a headache.”

He bit the corner of his lip. “So, I elicit a reaction?”

“Can I get two beers, please? Molson is fine.”

He yanked two bottles from the cooler, pried the caps off, and held them at arm’s length. “Look. You go ahead and live in the delusional world you created for yourself. But when it happens—and it will—I get to say ‘I told you so,’ and the only response you get to give is a smile.”

“Is this a bet within a bet?”

He slowly nodded, piercing me with his gaze and running the tip of his middle finger down the condensation collecting on one of the bottles.

“Fine.” I wrapped my hands around the beers.

He dragged his finger over my knuckles, and the same twinge I’d felt before raged through me like an avalanche. I glared at him to mask the expression I wanted to give—perplexed.

“Have fun.” His brow twitched.

When I got back to the table, Michael spotted me in the window’s reflection and spun around with a smile.

I handed him a bottle. “How about we play a game of pool?” And avoid the act of staring at each other from across the table.

“I love it. I’m sure you’re a regular Black Widow, huh?”

“Ha. Not exactly. I think the last time I played was—well…”

He chuckled and delicately touched the crook of my elbow, leading us to the table. “I’d be happy to give you a few pointers.”

Pointers? What was wrong with me? Here I thought doing a physical form of activity could distract me from the masterpiece that was his face, and now we’d be…close. Both bent over the table and—my hand tightened around my bottle, fumbling not to drop it.

“You want a long stick or a short one?” Michael asked, resting his bottle on the edge of the table.

I choked on my spit, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from answering what thought the question enticed. “Short. I’ve got arms like a t-rex.”

He snickered. “Want me to break?”

I blinked.

“Launch the cue ball into the rest of them? Send them flying in all directions?” He scratched the back of his head. “Hopefully, make a couple in the pockets to impress you?”

My cheeks burned. “Break. Ha. Yes. Please. If I did it, I’d probably miss the cue ball.”

He lined up the shot, striking the white ball into the rest, and sinking two striped balls.

“Look at you, Pool Shark.” I sipped on my beer, snorting it through my nose when he bent over in front of me.

His pants weren’t what you would call tight, but his butt was prominent enough it made quite the impression through the fabric. I chewed on the mouth opening of my bottle.

“Damn. Missed. You’re up, sweetcakes. Ready?” Michael turned to look at me, grinning when he saw my eyes snap to his face.

“Yup,” I squeaked, holding my stick with both hands.

“Alright. Come here. You’ll be solids. What you want to do is line your stick up with your intended shot. I’d suggest going for the yellow in the back left corner. It’s a clear shot.” He motioned for me to join him on the opposite side of the table.

“You would know best. You tell me where to hit, and I’ll smack it with my stick.” Sometimes, I truly felt I’d do better to keep my mouth sealed shut. For eternity. Or at least twenty-four hours.

I bent over the table, slapping my stick onto it. He traced his callused hands over mine, adjusting them around the wood. He moved behind me, his crotch inches from my butt. The heat radiating from his chest coursed over my back, making my stomach clench.

This was a bad idea. So, so bad.

“Go ahead and line up your shot with the cue ball.” His voice was soft and low in my ear like a masculine lullaby. His hands drifted over my shoulders, turning me in the right direction. “Now pull back the stick and don’t force it. Let it glide through your fingers.”

How I hadn’t turned into a melted pile of M&M’s already was astounding.

I did as he instructed, sending the stick into the cue ball with a loud thwack. The yellow ball flew into the pocket. I squealed, standing upright so fast my head flew into Michael’s face.

He held a hand over his nose with a grimace, sniffling several times before he forced a half-smile.

“Oh my—are you okay? I’m so sorry.” I lifted my hands to his face but let them drop back at my sides.

“It’s all good. No blood.” He pressed a finger over the bridge of his nose. “Nice shot.”

I whimpered. “The pool ball or your nose?”

“Both, I suppose.” His eyes beamed, despite the back of my head having plastered into them moments ago. “I’m going to use the restroom. Save the table?”

“Absolutely.” I tacked on extra enthusiasm and rose to the balls of my feet as he passed by.

Rolling my eyes, I snatched my beer bottle and chugged it.

“I may be no expert in romance, but call me crazy—smacking a guy in the face doesn’t seem like the right path,” Eric chimed from nearby.

I lowered the bottle, holding an overflowing amount of liquid in my puffed cheeks, glaring at him, and gulping it down. “I don’t know about that. Some guys find clumsiness—endearing.”

If I’d broken his nose, he might have sung a different tune.

Eric held two full beer bottles with one hand. He kept my gaze, challenging me with those steely blues as he rested them on the small display near the pool table. “Remember. All you can say in response is a smile.”

“Shoo before he comes back and thinks I’m flirting with the bartender.”

“Maybe you are.”

My neck flushed.

His brow quirked before he strolled back to the bar like a passing cloud.

Shoving my rapidly growing irritation for the man in plaid away, I plastered a genuine grin upon Michael’s return.

“Ah, fresh brews. Awesome.” He finished the first bottle.

“I’m really sorry about the uh—” I pointed to his face and then to my head.

“Nah.” He slipped one of his large hands over my miniature one. “Don’t sweat it. No harm, no foul, right?” His smile could’ve electrocuted me.

A squeak formed at the back of my throat as he gazed down at me, idly stroking my knuckles with a callused fingertip. Snapping my hand away, I slapped my stick onto the table. “I get another turn, correct? Cause I sunk a ball?”

His eyes fell to my hands. “Yeah. But you may want to use the right end.”

I frowned, staring at the rubber end of the stick versus the felted tip. My cheeks turned crimson, and I slowly turned the stick around.

He leaned on the table, his gaze dropping to my chest as I bent forward. “You’re pretty adorable.”

He said it right as I hit the stick into the ball. My hand jerked, making it bounce off the side.

I idly fanned myself. “You flatter me.”

Score one for Elani. He did find my clumsiness cute.

“That was my fault. Here.” He moved closer, putting the tanned muscle of his bicep in clear view. Moving the cue ball back to its original location, he slipped the stick into my hands. “I’ll let you have a do-over. And I’ll help. Deal?”

My throat felt like sandpaper as I stared at his lips, only managing a nod in response. He moved behind me, pressing his hip to my side. Heat rolled from his chest onto my back, making my grip loosen on the stick. If his hands hadn’t wrapped over mine, I might have dropped it. Together, we sent the cue ball flying, but no balls sunk this time. I turned my head over my shoulder. His eyes were closed, his mouth nearing my lips.

My heart thundered against my chest. I grabbed my clutch and shoved it between our faces. “I should call it a night, but can I get your number?”

His eyes fluttered open. Those crazy thick man lashes blinked in confusion. “Uh, sure. Of course.”

I took a step back and handed him my phone with a new text window open. “You can text yourself.” After pointing at the touch screen keyboard, I winced.

Like he’s never used a cell.

He nibbled on his lip as he typed before handing it back to me. A guitar riff sound went off in his back pocket. He slipped it out and waved it at me with a twinkle in his eye. “We’re all set.”

“Great. I’d love to see you again.” I tucked my clutch under my arm, bumping into the corner of the table as I backed up, and grabbed my jacket from a nearby holder. “I remembered I have this—an important webcam meeting with a client.”

“That’s right. We didn’t even talk about each other’s jobs.”

I snapped my fingers. “Perfect. Something to talk about next time.”

He chuckled to himself, and I waved, trying to walk past the bar as fast as possible, knowing Eric would have an earful to say.

“I may stand corrected. Should we pick out the wedding song? Amazed by Lonestar is a popular choice,” Eric remarked, holding back a smile.

“Can it, Bar Boy,” I said through a growl, making my way outside, impatient for the cold nip over my cheeks.

I’d mentally chastised myself the entire cab ride home. It wasn’t his fault. It really wasn’t. I was attracted to him and did nothing to sway the contrary, so it’s no wonder he went for the kiss. The kiss was sacred ground for me. You could tell so much about a man from that one singular act. The care he took in the performance. The feeling behind it. The feeling it gave me. I’d never kissed anyone who made my stomach flutter. It was a constant setup for disappointment and standards no one should have to live up to.

I flopped face down on my bed. Michael flustered me so much that trying to recall my excuse for leaving was like wading through the hazy memories of overindulging in alcohol—which could’ve played a part as well. My clutch buzzed near my head, and I fished for it, narrowing my eyes at the screen saying I had a new message from a number I didn’t recognize.

Michael. Ah yes. I hadn’t even input his name yet.

I shut my eyes and opened the message, slowly peeking one open to survey the damage. My heart fell straight to my groin. It was a half-naked photo of Michael, posing with one hand behind his head, grinning at the camera with a heavy-lidded gaze. The shot cut off right above Michael, Jr. He included the words: A Preview.

I sighed. After the first date, a photo like that was one step away from an unsolicited “Dick Pic.” And I’d never been one to appreciate them nor the type who felt compelled to reciprocate. I’m not sure what stung more—having to turn down a man masterpiece or admitting to Eric he’d been right.