“I was wondering if you were ever going to take that shot,” Hot Bartender Guy’s deep cadence reaches between us and grabs my gut, awakening butterflies that have been dormant for quite some time.

He leans against the other side of the bar with his muscular arms crossed over his chest. Careless, but happy, and hopelessly sexy in a scruffy way. His sleeveless shirt showing a hint of what his hard abdomen might look like under its cotton.

“Ha…” I nervously produce sounds, trying to quickly unearth my cool. How long has it been since I’ve flirted? “Don’t you love it when you come out of the bathroom to find your friends have ordered you a blowjob shot to take alone in a bar full of watchful eyes?”

His piercing green irises scan my face, a predatory smirk of amusement tugging at his lips. “They were watching you before the shot… You’re beautiful.” Hot Bartender Guy’s smirk grows into a full-blown grin. “Was it good?”

The way he’s gazing at me through the dusty-blond hair swept across his forehead almost makes me melt into a puddle of stuttering nerves. Almost.

“It was your blowjob, you tell me...”

My friends chuckle around me. HBG licks his lips with a smirk, then leans forward, resting his elbows on the bar in front of me.

“My name is Dylan, and I live in an apartment above this bar. I’m twenty-two, I surf every morning at five—almost religiously—I’m a Cancer sign, I hate chocolate—some people think that’s weird—I’m not a serial killer, and I would very much love to take you to dinner. Blowjobs optional.”

“Twenty-two?!” Keith scoffs. “You’re just a baby. You better pick this one up, Win, or I’m going to do it for you. Mr. Surfer is. H. O. T.” He spells the word, dragging out each letter.

Christ. I’m getting nervous, hot, and bothered over a twenty-two-year-old surfer who hates chocolate. Who the fuck? One-night stands aren’t really my thing, but not having one with Dylan seems like a betrayal to women everywhere. It’d be a sacrilege not to take advantage of this opportunity.

But, my god, Dylan… He sounds like a teenage quarterback. And three years ago he might’ve been—Jesus, he’s young. I bet his surfer body is magnificent. If this guy even comes close to my bedroom, blowjobs aren’t just optional, they’re mandatory.

“Do you have a pen?” I ask.

Dylan smiles, blinding me with his perfectly aligned, whitened teeth that glow from the contrast of his tan. This guy is a lady killer, no doubt about it. He’s too good at this not to be. Every look, every flick of his eyebrow, the way his eyes watch my mouth when I speak… He thinks I’m in the bag. Any more time spent at this bar, taking shots that I have to wrap my lips around, and I will be in the bag. He’s supposedly not a serial killer, but he’s killing this moment. I feel like bro-bumping his knuckles with mine because he’s doing so well.