Son of a bitch. One of the boys must’ve hired a stripper for Garrett—even though he’d specifically requested not to have one. If Garrett were marrying anyone else besides his baby sister, he would have laughed and paid for the performance. Hell, he would have even approved.
But not this time.
“Which one of you dickwads did this?” he asked to no one in particular. Mike scowled and pulled out his wallet. “I appreciate the fact that you came here to dance for our boy but you’re not needed. I’ll pay you for the dance anyway, but then you can go home.”
She stiffened, and turned to face him with wide eyes. The fury in her eyes would have smote him on the spot, if she had the capability to shoot fire from them. He’d be nothing but singed ashes on the burgundy plastic seat.
“Buddy, you couldn’t afford me even if you tried,” she said. “And FYI? I’m not a stripper. Not all dancers are strippers, but I wouldn’t expect someone like you to know that.”
And with that, she shoved out of the booth and crossed the bar with her head held high and her jean-shorts-clad ass swinging with each step. Who the f**k wore shorts in March, anyway? Women with the longest, leanest, sexiest legs he’d ever seen. Women like her.
Her brown cowboy boots stomped their way across the room, and he had a feeling she used those boots to stomp all over men, too. She tossed one last spiteful look back at him and then sank into an empty barstool.
And he?
Couldn’t look away.
Chapter Two
Morgan Collins ignored the weight of that man’s stare with the stubborn determination that had been rightfully handed down to her from a long line of stubborn Irish women.
But, really.
Of all the arrogant, insufferable, no good know-it-alls in the world, that man sitting in her seat was definitely the worst. And then some. First, he stole her booth and didn’t even care. Then he topped that off with accusing her of being a stripper and trying to send her off sans the dance he’d thought she was trying to deliver.
She didn’t know which was more insulting—the fact that he’d automatically assumed she was a stripper, or the fact that he hadn’t wanted her to dance for him at all. Like, what the hell was his problem, anyway? How had he even known she was a dancer? Maybe he had recognized her from the stage. That could have led to his snide assumption about her being a stripper. Some men didn’t know the difference between a Vegas showgirl who danced because she loved the art and a stripper who took her clothes off for money.
She wasn’t one of those girls.
She danced because she was a dancer. She didn’t know a life without dancing and hoped she never would. Dancing was her life. The thing that made her happiest and most fulfilled. A burst of masculine laughter crossed the loud bar and she looked over her shoulder. It was him, all right. How bad was it that she recognized his laugh already? He’d been over there, in her seat, for two hours now. Laughing with his buddies, tipping back the drinks.
While she’d been stood up by her blind date.
She was supposed to meet some guy her friend had hooked her up with but the jerk hadn’t even bothered to show. Between that dating disaster, the audition she’d gone on earlier that she was sure she’d blown, and the asshat in her booth, her self-esteem had taken a blow today. A big one.
As she watched him in what she hoped was an un-obvious manner, his group of men stood up and exited the bar. Leaving only one behind—the same one who’d insulted her. He slid back into the booth, spread his legs across the seat, and stared back at her.
Wait. Back at her? Oh, crap, she was still staring, wasn’t she?
He cocked a brow at her but she refused to look away. She’d been caught. Might as well make herself look cocky and bold instead of skittering away like a frightened lamb. When she didn’t back down, he grinned and pointed at the seat opposite him—the other half of the booth that was quite empty now. He wanted her to sit with him.
Should she?
Before she even realized she’d made a decision, Morgan was crossing the room with her half empty whiskey sour in her hand. His gaze skimmed over her body and she didn’t miss the light of appreciation in his eyes. He might have sent her away earlier but he liked what he saw. Good. Maybe she’d get him all riled up and horny and then leave. It would serve the jerk right.
You know what? That’s exactly what she would do.
She sauntered over, a hand on her hip and a seductive smile on her lips. She knew how to play men like him. She’d been dealing with his type all of her life. They thought they owned the world and all the women in it, all because they were hot. She’d caught a little bit of his green-yellow-red light speech—and she guessed he lived by that rule. Run when the relationship got serious.
Little did he know, she lived by it, too. She just called it self-preservation instead of a fancy freaking name.
She stopped in front of the booth and shot him a look from underneath her lashes. Men loved that garbage, and from the look in his eyes, he was no different. He was eating all of this up like a kid in a candy store. “Are you ready to give me my seat back? Or did you just call me over here to insult me some more?”
“I called you over here because you’ve been watching me,” he said, lifting his mug to his lips. “And I’ve been watching you watching me.”
Darn, she’d been caught. Best to play it off like it meant nothing. Because it didn’t mean anything. At all. “If I was watching you, it was only because you’re in my seat.”
He patted his muscular thighs. “If you want it so bad, come get it.”
She eyed his lap. Did she dare? The temptation was definitely there. What would he do if she sat on him? Called his bluff?
She lowered herself onto his thighs, wriggling her butt to get comfortable. Positioning herself sideways on his lap, she saw that his bright sea green eyes went all wide and he set his mug down with too much force. She fought back a grin. Yeah, he definitely hadn’t expected her to take his suggestion.
His hands flopped to his sides like a fish out of water, as if he was uncertain of what to do with them. “Uh, okay. That works.” He gave a hoarse laugh and ran a hand through his sandy blond hair. “So, what’s your name? I feel like I should know it, since you’re on my lap and all.”
“Morgan.” She sipped her whiskey sour. Her hand didn’t shake at all, even though the glass felt as if it weighed a thousand pounds. Hopefully, only she knew how fast her heart was beating over the fact that she was sitting on a strange man’s lap. She purposely didn’t ask him what his name was. “Where are all your buddies?”