Michelle Celmer - Tempted By The Royal

He grinned at her quick response and lifted his glass to his lips as she moved down the bar to serve another customer.

He’d struck out with the sexy bartender, but it was his first time at bat after a long absence from the plate and, the way he figured it, it was only the top of the first inning. There was a lot of the game still to be played.

Eric ordered a barbecued pork sandwich with a side of spicy fries and washed it down with another draft as he watched the woman who’d eventually introduced herself as Molly Shea check on her customers at the bar. She took a moment to chat with each one as if they were all old friends, and he knew some of them probably were.

“How long have you been a bartender?” he asked her.

She poured a glass of water and squeezed a wedge of lime into it. “Forever.”

“Has it always been your ambition?”

“It’s honest work,” she said.

“I wasn’t implying otherwise,” he told her. “You just seem like a woman who could do so much more.”

“I can make all the fanciest drinks,” she said, deliberately misunderstanding him. “But we don’t have much call for them here.”

“You’re determined not to give away anything about yourself, aren’t you?”

“Bartenders don’t make confessions, they listen to them.”

“I thought that was just a stereotype.”

“I used to think so, too. But I learned quickly that a sympathetic ear and a shot of Scotch whiskey is a lot more successful at loosening tongues than a long couch and a fifty-minute clock.”

His gaze skimmed over her face. “The ears are nice,” he agreed. “But I’ll bet it has a lot more to do with your soft voice and warm smile.” And the idea of this woman on a long couch—minus the fifty-minute clock—was more than a little intriguing.

“Is that why you’re here?” she asked. “Are you looking to unburden your soul?”

“My soul isn’t burdened.”

Her only response was to raise her eyebrows.

“No more than most,” he clarified.

She smiled at that, and he felt a funny little kick in his belly. It was lust, he was certain of it. Certain that what he was feeling for this intriguing bartender couldn’t be any more than that.

Eric picked up his cup and frowned when he found it empty. He’d switched to coffee after his second draft, and he’d already had one refill, making him wonder just how long he’d been sitting at the bar.

“It’s almost eleven,” Molly told him, somehow anticipating his question as she brought the pot over to refill his cup again. “Isn’t there somewhere else you should be?”

“Not anymore,” he told her.

Her eyes were unexpectedly sympathetic as she asked, “Did she kick you out?”

“Who?”

“Whoever’s responsible for that lost look in your eyes.”

“No one kicked me out.” Then he smiled at her. “Not yet, anyway.”

She laughed. “You’ve got another hour.”

He was still there at the end of the hour.

And Molly was still as conscious of his presence as she’d been from the minute he walked in the door. Conscious of his attention focused on her as she began tidying up her workspace and wiping down the counters after last call.

She was flattered, of course. The man was sinfully good looking with that dark hair and those smoldering eyes, a mouth that made her think of long, slow kisses and shoulders that looked as if they could carry the weight of the world.

But he didn’t belong there. She’d recognized that fact even before he’d opened his mouth and started speaking in that smoothly cultured voice that spoke of private schools and a wealth of other privileges.

And she wondered what he was doing in Texas or, more particularly, what he was doing in her bar.

She did know that every time she caught him looking at her, her pulse spiked. And when he smiled, her heart pounded and her blood heated. Though her experience with men was limited, she recognized her reaction for what it was: lust, pure and simple. And when a man looked like the one sitting at her bar, she was certain he had more than enough experience being the object of women’s desires.

The stirring of her own desire, however, was unexpected.

She wasn’t the type of woman to fantasize about having sex with a man she didn’t even know. Of course, her lackluster experience with Trevor had pretty much nixed her fantasies about sex—and the few brief relationships she’d had since then hadn’t given her reason to hope for anything different.

But she poured herself a single glass of wine—part of her usual closing up routine—and slid onto the stool beside his. “Are you really waiting for me to kick you out?”

“I’m not in a hurry to go anywhere else.”

“If I’m going to let you stay while I close up, I’ll need to know more about you.”

“Such as?”

“Where you’re from—because we both know it’s not Texas.”

“Tesoro del Mar,” he told her.

“Treasure of the Sea,” she translated.

“You speak Spanish?”

“A little.” She sipped her wine. “And is it—a treasure of the sea, that is?”

“Absolutely.”

“What brought you from there to here?”

“I was visiting a friend.”

“A girlfriend?” she guessed.

“No,” he said, then, “yes, there was a woman.”

She lifted a brow. “Only one?”

He smiled. “My best friend is getting married. His fiancée is the only woman I’ve seen since I’ve been here.”

“How long has that been?”

“Almost two weeks.”

“And why is it that you’re alone in a bar at quarter after twelve on a Sunday night?”

He made a point of looking her over. “I’m not exactly alone now, am I?”

“Alone except for the bartender,” she clarified.

“I would say alone with an incredibly beautiful woman.”

The heat in his gaze added weight to his words, but Molly wasn’t going to let herself get all tongue-tied and weak-kneed just because a handsome man paid her a compliment.

“I’m flattered,” she said. “But you’re going to be disappointed if you think a few smooth words will convince me to go home with you.”

“Since I don’t even have a hotel room booked, I was hoping you would invite me to go home with you.” There was something in his tone that told her he was only half joking.

“Not going to happen,” she told him.

“Is there anyone special in your life?”

She smiled. “There are a lot of special people in my life.”

“I meant a boyfriend,” he clarified. “Since you’re not wearing a ring, I’m guessing there’s not a husband or fiancé.”

She shook her head. “I don’t really have time to date. Too many other things going on.”

“That might be a valid excuse for neglecting to return a phone call,” he noted, “but it hardly explains not dating.”

“Does a broken engagement explain it better for you?”

He nodded. “Broken heart, too?”

She hesitated a moment, then shook her head. “No, and maybe that’s one of the reasons I haven’t been dating. I realized how close I’d come to making a very big mistake, and I needed some time to figure out what I really wanted.”

“And have you?”

“I’m still working on it.”

“Me, too,” he admitted.

“I would have figured you for the type of man who knew exactly what he wanted.”

“I used to be.” His eyes held hers for a long moment, then his gaze dropped to her mouth. “Not only did I know what I wanted, but I knew how to get it.”