No Strings Attached. Alison Kent
over his shoulders and pecs, hung loosely to his hips.
The man’s body was a piece of work, hard and fit and deserving of a calendar spread. Chloe boosted herself onto a padded red stool, propped her elbows on the shiny black bar and settled her chin into the cup of her palms.
He really was drool-worthy with those shoulders and that butt and the wide white smile that dimpled both of his cheeks. He’d cut his dark blond hair recently, so it was shorter than usual, barely long enough to need a brush. And then there were his blue eyes, and his…
…oh, so loud mouth!
Chloe grimaced as Eric shouted and whistled at whatever sports thing was going on across the room on the big screen TV. Macy had been right when she’d called him a Tarzan. Chloe could just see him, muscles bunching, swinging from a vine, beating on his chest, wearing nothing but a skimpy loincloth….
“Well, if it isn’t Chloe Zuniga, Miss Pretty in Pink in the flesh.” Eric slapped both palms on the bar, jarring Chloe’s elbows.
At his reference to her wardrobe’s usual color scheme, Chloe smiled sweetly while trying to recall her well-rehearsed, extremely witty opening.
Having forgotten everything now that she was here and he was so close and so incredibly—and annoyingly—cute, she held both arms out to the side and swiveled back and forth on the bar stool. “Not a speck of pink, visible or otherwise.”
Eric stepped onto the bar’s low storage ledge and leaned forward, peering as far as he could over the counter. Chloe helped him out by lifting a foot to show off her socks, her cross-trainers and her long denim shorts.
Looking impressed, Eric stepped down and then grinned. “I feel like it’s St. Patrick’s Day and I’m searching for any speck of green I can find.”
“Nope. Not on this girl. No green and no pink.” Chloe wanted to stomp a foot in frustration. He hadn’t said a word about her cross-trainers.
Or about her Texans jersey, which was the hottest thing going, according to the teenage salesclerk who’d watched, tongue lolling, while Chloe had shimmied the jersey down over the midthigh hem of her skirt when she’d tried it on in the middle of the store.
Eric studied her face closely, snapped his fingers. “Your eye shadow. Definitely pink.”
“Definitely not. This is gRAFFITI gIRL’s Mosh Pit Bruise.” She closed her eyes and ran a fingertip over the lighter color just beneath her brow. “And this is Strobe Light White.”
Eric frowned in earnest this time, as if seeing something that didn’t quite click. And then both brows lifted in disbelief as it hit him.
“Chloe. Don’t look now, but you’re wearing a football jersey. And I think I saw athletic shoes on your feet. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were up to no good.”
Chloe pressed her lips together, waiting for him to put the two of her phone calls he’d avoided together with her laughably out of character ensemble. It didn’t take him long to do the math.
He backed a short step away, yanked the green towel printed with a red Haydon ‘H’ from his shoulder and wiped both of his hands. “The answer is no.”
She’d never thought this was going to be easy. She just hadn’t counted on coming up on a dead end so soon. “Now, sugar. How can you tell me no when you don’t even know the question?”
“I’ve got news for you, princess.” His head continued to shake from side to side. “You’re in enemy territory. You start trying to bust my chops and the uproar’s liable to bring down the roof on your head.”
Chloe did her best to look demure and damaged. “I’m crushed to know that’s what you think of me. Enemy indeed.”
His attempt to remain firm dissolved into a chuckle under his breath. “I spent a month as your scavenger hunt partner. Don’t think that poor pitiful me act is going to cut any of my mustard. Now, I have customers to see to.”
Just like that? He was blowing her off just like that? “Excuse me, but I am sitting at your bar and I have yet to see any service.”
The towel went back to Eric’s shoulder. His hands went to his hips. His expression went from bemused to businesslike. “What can I get you then?”
This wasn’t going at all like she’d planned, and she had only herself to blame. Had she really thought dressing like a car pool mom would fool Eric into thinking she was anyone other than who she was?
He’d spent a month in her company, and no pair of shoes or sports jersey would make him forget her tendency to be a bit aggressive at times, assertive at others—a personality blip that held top honors on her list of self-improvements to make.
Her potty mouth was another issue.
Right beneath her bad girl reputation.
Which she needed Eric to save.
She couldn’t afford not to play this his way. She pulled a glossy menu card from the stack pushed against the wall at the end of the bar. “What’s good here?”
He shoved a basket of peanuts in her direction, then a basket of pretzels. “Take a look at the menu. I have twenty-five beers on tap. Or one of the bartenders can mix up whatever tickles your fancy.”
She pretended to pout. “I think my feelings are hurt. We spent an inseparable month and you have to ask?”
“A hazard of the job. Jason,” Eric called over his shoulder, his eyes never leaving Chloe’s. “Bring the princess here a cosmopolitan.”
Eric knew it was too early in the afternoon for Chloe’s favorite party drink. But she wasn’t about to call him on it because she knew that’s what he was waiting for. For her to tell him he’d gotten it wrong, that he knew better, that he should use his head and stop acting like a brain-dead jock. But not one of those comebacks crossed her mind as a serious option.
Her days of busting his chops had to come to an end, or she would never get him to agree to her proactive, career-saving strategy. And since Eric played a major role in her plan, she took a small sip of the bright pink drink when it arrived, and smiled as a peace offering.
Eric had been standing back, watching her. And when she actually went to sip more of a drink he knew she didn’t want, he pulled the glass from her hand. “What are you up to, Chloe? The answer is still no, but I’m curious what you’re doing here.”
She picked up a pretzel, snapped it in half. Eric was cute when he was so…discombobulated. “I’m not sure I want to tell you. Not when you think such ugly things about me.”
“I knew it. You are up to something.” Eric whipped the towel over the bar, which was already clean as a whistle.
“Well, yes. I am female.”
“Exactly.” He jabbed a finger toward her. “Which means that whatever you’re up to, whatever you want, is going to benefit you and leave me out in the cold.”
She fingered the stem of the glass she’d retrieved. “That’s not necessarily true. I seem to remember sharing a tequila kiss that warmed you up plenty.”
“We were both just this side of drunk—” he held his thumb and forefinger a millimeter apart “—and you know it.”
“Just think what might have happened if we’d been rip-roaring.” A thought that had often crossed her mind.
Eric, obviously, didn’t share her curiosity. “Think what might’ve happened if we hadn’t been drinking at all.”
“You tell me.” And she truly wanted to know.
For all their mutual flirtation, there were times when she felt he was only humoring her. And, perversely, she wanted to explore that feeling further. She had no desire to be any man’s comic relief.
“Give me a break.” Eric