I reluctantly look away from the man I want to climb like a spider-monkey and raise both hands in faux innocence. “He came over here and started talking to me!”

Dempsey tilts his chin up toward Jake, regarding him while keeping those lagoon-blue irises locked on me. If he keeps looking at me like this, I swear my panties are going to float away in a tidal wave of desire.

“What am I missing here?”

Fuckity fuck. This particular Haas brother has no idea who I am, and Jake’s about to squash my fun before I can even get this party started.

But the heavens decide to shine down on me at that exact moment, and a shattering sound rings out from the back of the bar. Jake rushes away from us toward one of the big booths that line the back wall before he can answer Dempsey’s question.

“Don’t serve her,” he barks over his shoulder as he hustles toward the commotion.

Dempsey chuckles darkly before leaning closer. “What the hell did you do to get that kind of reaction from him?” I bite back a smile as he continues to check me out.

“Honestly? Between you and me?” I hook my heels on the barstool and boost myself up a few inches, silently cheering when he matches my posture and leans in farther.

“I’ve known Jake for years. He’s always hot and cold like that with me. I never know what I’m going to get with him.”

Dempsey’s eyebrows draw together a fraction as he shifts back slightly. “That doesn’t really sound like Jake,” he challenges.

Shit.

I assumed Jake was just his boss. That was probably the wrong angle if they’re actually friends. I have to spin this somehow. I need a diversion, stat.

I pull out my sparkly flask, because as ridiculous as I feel drinking from it, it will absolutely serve its purpose in this situation.

I unscrew the top, then tilt it to my mouth with a flourish, adding in a satisfied moan after I swallow.

“I brought my own for this very reason,” I quip, stashing the flask just as quickly as I whipped it out.

Dempsey’s eyes widen in surprise.

He schools his expression a moment later, then leans forward until his forearms are resting on the natural wood bar. I chance a peek and squeeze my thighs together when I get visual confirmation of what I had assumed. Yep. Arms like his brother. Long, sinewy muscles sheathed in perfectly tanned skin. Hands that were made for touching, kneading, teasing. Veins for fucking days.

“I can’t let you drink that in here, princess.”

I scowl at the cutesy nickname.

“Princess? Really?”

He smirks. “That’s what it says on your sparkly pink flask, princess,” he counters with extra emphasis.

Huh. So it does.

Tou-fucking-che, Dempesy Haas.