Home > Hetch (Men OF S.W.A.T #1)(16)

Hetch (Men OF S.W.A.T #1)(16)
River Savage

“Ah, B. He’s coming over here.” Her mouth barely moves over the rim of her glass, but I hear her loud and clear.

“Shit.” I groan under my breath. I didn’t think about how he was going to react to my brushoff, but having him come over here wasn’t one of the scenarios.

“Evening, ladies.” His voice is clear, calm. The smooth baritone dances over my skin and down my spine.

“Good evening.” Payton smiles up at the mystery man, then back to me.

“I wanted to know if there was something wrong with the drink I sent over?” He places a drink, the one I just sent back, down in front of me.

I take the opportunity to turn and look up at him. Dark blond hair, green eyes, strong jaw, slightly visible under a five o’clock shadow. A healthy ego more visible the closer he steps into me.

“No, nothing wrong. I’m just not looking for a drink right now.” His left eyebrow arches as the start of one of the sexiest grins I’ve ever seen starts to pull at the side of his kissable mouth.

“Seems to me you’re about ready for a refill anyway.” He motions to my almost empty glass.

“Like I said, I’m good.” I set my lips into my best get-lost-now smile and turn back to face my girls. The table is silent, and for a second, I fight my body’s response as I work through some conversation starters.

“You know, where I come from, a man offers to buy you a drink, you say thank you and don’t be rude about it.” It takes me a second to forcibly let his bullshit mentality slide, before turning back to him.

“Well, where I come from, accepting a drink from a stranger is dangerous.” The grin I thought was sexy, spills wider over his face, rendering me stupid.

Fuck, not dimples.

Case in point, Fee. Talking leads to dimples. Dimples lead to sex.

Hot, sweaty, dimple-filled sex.

“You think I laced your drink?” It takes a second to work through the words that filtered into my mind before I can answer.

“For all I know—” I begin.

“I didn’t.” He loses the dimples, his pinched mouth masking them.

“Yeah, I’m sure all serial killers say that before drugging their victims,” I counter. Payton clears her throat, fighting a snort, but I don’t waver.

“I’m a cop.”

Wow, three words I wasn’t expecting from him.

“I bet a few have used that line too,” I fire back, still not cracking.

Jesus, I’m dealing with dimples, arrogance, and a cop.

I sure know how to pick them.

“I can show you my badge.” He pulls out a chain from the neckline of his shirt and presents it to me like the good kid in class, handing in an essay a day early.

“Is this supposed to impress me?” At this point, I don’t know why I’m still engaging. Sure he’s hot, dangerous dimples, and looks amazing in the tight jeans and dark Henley he’s wearing, but the man is cocky as hell.

That combo never mixes well.

“You always this bitchy?” He tucks his badge back in his shirt and brings back the dimples.

“And strike three, you’re out.” I spin back to face my friends. If I wasn’t so set alight, I would find their slack jaws almost comical.

Seriously, did they expect anything less from me?

“Aww, come on, B. I thought he had, at least, one more strike in his favor.” Payton offers him a lifeline, and I have to hold myself back from kicking her under the table.

“My thoughts exactly.” Dimple’s tone is playful, but I still catch an air of arrogance.

I turn back, happy to lay it out for him. “Buying me a drink without asking.” I raise one finger and count them off. “Showing me your badge and expecting me to drop my panties at the sight of it.” I raise a second finger. “And calling me a bitch.” I raise a third. “You’re so out it’s almost laughable.”

“Hey, now, I didn’t call you a bitch. I said bitchy.” His hands move to his narrow hips, drawing my eyes down to his package.

“Same thing.” I force them back up.

“It’s not.” He fires back, not giving in, and even though I struck him out, and he’s still arguing with me about it, I find myself awfully attracted to him and surprisingly, this conversation.

“What’s your name?” he asks, tilting our banter on its axis.

Don’t engage.

Don’t engage.

Do not engage.

“Liberty.” My stupid tongue answers without permission. Because let’s be honest, deep down, she knew the second he walked over my self-appointed sabbatical was in danger.

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