K. Bromberg: Sweet Ache

I grunt in response, because that’s just what I intend to do: steer clear of her. Too many newbies come in gung ho, trying to get the next big story, and end up getting someone hurt. Just like what happened to Stella .

“Well, for what it matters, loose cannon or not, I think you should go for it. She’ll probably be gone sooner rather than later, which is always a good thing—prevents attachment, and, shit, you never know when your next chance to taste those nine lives will be.” He winks at me and I can’t help but snort.

“Thanks, but I’ve got enough to worry about with how to figure out my new photog coming in tomorrow.” I roll my eyes and bring the shot glass back to my partially numb lips. My mind veers back to the fact that it’s been ten years since I’ve had to break in anybody new. I’m not looking forward to it.

“Well, tough shit, man,” he says, patting me on the back, “because she’s making a move for you.”

The resigned sigh falls from my mouth at the same time she slides onto the stool next to me. Gone is the distinct smell of this crowded bar, replaced by a clean and flowery scent as her perfume surrounds me. I keep my head down, eyes focused on the scratches in the wood bar, knowing that I don’t want the small zing I feel to flourish. At all.

But of course the longer we sit here, with me looking down and the full weight of her stare on me, I know I’m in a losing battle. I’ve got plenty of fight in me, just not for her right now. I need to head this off at the pass.

“Whatever you’re looking for, I’m not him.” I try not to sound too hostile, but my voice lacks any kind of warmth. I’ve been here, done this before. The newbies try to butter me up to get the scoop on everything inside town—and coming on the heels of the mess with Stella, I’m not giving anything to anybody.

“I don’t believe I’m looking for anything.” Her voice sounds as smooth as silk, with a hint of rasp. Why did I know she was going to have a sexy voice?

“Good.”

“Whiskey sour,” she says to the waiter, and I have to admit the order kind of surprises me. “And put it on his tab.”

I immediately look up to see the smirk on her face and the taunting glimmer in her green eyes. Intrigue has me keeping my gaze on her because I admire the fact she came back at me with her own line instead of scurrying away to lick her wounds. Can’t say the freelancer doesn’t have some chops.

“I don’t believe I offered to buy you one.” And the truth of the matter is I don’t give a flying fuck about the drink. I would’ve bought it anyway out of plain manners, but something tells me I just walked right into her well-maneuvered game, and fuck me if I’m going to stay here.

“Well, I don’t believe I asked you to be an asshole either, so the drink’s on you.” She raises her eyebrows as accepts the drink from the bartender, then brings it to her lips. And of course my eyes veer down to watch her run the tip of her tongue over the drop of liquid that falls there.

My mind drifts to the pleasure she could bring with her mouth and her tongue … purely out of male fascination.

“Then I guess you should steer clear of me and neither of us will have to worry about me being an asshole.” I grunt out the words, unsure why I’m pushing her away so hard when she’s done nothing wrong.

“So you’re the one, huh?”

Her comment stops me with my drink midway to my mouth, and my thought process falters as I slowly look over to her, trying to figure out what she means. “The one?”

“Yep, the one who every reporter in this room hates and wants to be all at the same time.”

I take in the glossy black hair pulled back so that little pieces fall down to frame her face and soften her strong cheekbones as I mull over her comment. When our eyes meet, there’s defiance laced with amusement in hers, and as much as I want to face her challenge head on, I won’t. Not here, not now—and definitely not with a room packed with other journalists who are watching my every move to see if I’m going to fall apart in some way or another.

I motion to the bottle of Fireball sitting across from me and look at the bartender as I slide my money toward him. He picks up the bottle and sets it in front of me at the same time that I scoot my chair back. When I grab the neck of the bottle, I look back and give her a half-cocked smile. “Yep, I’m the one.”

And without so much as another word, I head out of the bar. The guys give me shit as I walk past about being a pansy-ass until I hold up the whisky bottle to show them I’m not really turning in early. Pauly catches my eye and nods, knowing where I’m headed and that I need the solitude I can find there.

The fucking problem, though, is even as I ascend the steps in the dank stairwell, the only thing I can think about is her.