Asking for TroubleBy: Tessa Bailey
If he winks at me one more time, I’m going to introduce his nuts to my size seven stiletto.
Hayden Winstead circled her ankle slowly underneath the bottle-laden table, barely repressing the urge to follow through on that visually satisfying thought. With three glasses of wine humming through her veins, it seemed like a reasonable way to wipe the patronizing smirk off Brent Mason’s face. Knowing Brent, however, needling her until she snapped was his goal, so she’d be damned before giving him an ounce of satisfaction.
The first time they’d met, in this very pub, he’d hit on her using so little finesse, she’d been forced to ask if he was kidding. Granted, they’d both had a few too many drinks that night, but nothing excused the line, “I’m not drunk, I’m just intoxicated by you.” Nothing.
Especially in light of what he said upon bringing her home and seeing where she lived. Ah, now I get it. You only date men in certain zip codes. His comment about her Upper West Side town house still rankled months later. Which is why she’d never regretted her own saccharine-sweet response. Speaking of zip codes, shouldn’t you be getting back to yours? Or is the zoo already closed for the night?
That’s where their acquaintance had begun. From there, it had gone downhill fast.
Really, they should have never been required to share the same oxygen ever again. Life would have been so much easier that way. Too bad their best friends, Daniel and Story, happened to be disgustingly in love. The kind of love that required them to be together practically nonstop, forcing Hayden into Brent’s presence with nauseating frequency.
Case in point, tonight. They all sat in their local hangout, Quincy’s, waiting for Story to return from her first day of work. An outing that put Hayden across from three unavailable men wearing her best damn underwear. Pathetic. A lot of women might have already removed said panties and flung them at their choice of the three NYPD Emergency Service officers. Men in uniform, and all that business.
Hayden’s were staying put.
Daniel Chase, hostage negotiator and former love-’em-and-leave-’em guru, was Story’s boyfriend and therefore strictly off-limits. As if he could even see anyone besides Hayden’s best friend. To Daniel’s right, staring pensively into his beer, sat former military sniper Matt Donovan. Not technically unavailable, but quiet and mysterious enough to give a girl the shivers.
Then there was Brent, explosives expert, or as he referred to himself, “blower-up of shit.” The man in question took a long pull of his beer, watching her the entire time. His confidence that very first night had irked her more than anything. Sure, a six-foot-five police officer built like a brick shithouse probably didn’t get turned down very often by women. Daniel might be the smooth, almost-beautiful one, but Brent had a rough-and-tumble quality to him that Hayden imagined drew women like bees to honey. With full, dark-blond hair and moss-green eyes, he couldn’t be described as classically handsome. More like a rugged sailor left over from a different time. The kind of man who picked up a woman in Times Square upon returning from war and threw her over his shoulder to take home to bed.
And that’s my cue to stop drinking.
Brent saluted her with his beer bottle. “What are you thinking about over there, duchess? Whatever it is looks mighty interesting.”
Her smile almost cracked upon hearing the infuriating nickname he refused to drop. “If I thought you had even a remote chance of keeping up, I’d tell you.”
“That so?” He leaned forward on his elbows, not stopping to acknowledge Matt’s irritated sigh. “Let’s see if I can guess.”
“Please do.” She took a dainty sip of her white wine. “Knock me over with your sparkling intellect.”
He stroked his chin. “There’s only so many things it could be. Planning your next fancy cocktail party, trying to remember if you made that crucial hair appointment—”
Daniel elbowed Brent in the ribs, giving them both a stern look. “Could you two give it a rest for one night? I’ve got enough on my mind.”
“Like what?” she and Brent asked at the same time, before exchanging a glare.