A harsh laugh escapes me, which causes him to wince again. I shake my head incredulously. “An elitist, too!” I exclaim. Never mind the fact that I was internally bemoaning having to be here not two minutes ago. “What does here have to do with someone’s vocabulary? And speaking of vocabulary, is sorry in yours? Because I haven’t heard that here, either.”

He regards me for a moment as the beat of the music intensifies, mimicking the angry pulse I can feel throbbing at my temple. His whole face infuriates me as it alternates between a frown and another smirk.

“You’re right,” he finally says, but it does nothing to ease my anger. “I shouldn’t assume someone with a decent vocabulary doesn’t enjoy a drink and some sports on a Friday night. I’d point out that I’m here, after all, and my vocabulary is at least good enough to recognize yours, but that would probably just be more evidence for you that I’m— How did you put it? Self-absorbed?” There’s that maddening smirk again. “As for sorry…” He trails off and rakes his gaze over me as if seeing me for the first time. I try to ignore the way my skin reacts to his obvious appreciation of my body. When he’s had his fill, his eyes meet mine again. “What exactly is it that I’d be sorry for?”

I wave a hand at his ass in the chair. “You took my seat.”

His eyebrows shoot up, and he blinks a few times in surprise. “I truly didn’t realize you had been sitting here.” He immediately stands and turns the chair so the seat faces me. “My friends are dancing, I guess? I saw an open seat and thought it best to wait them out.” Those brown eyes flick in the direction of the dance floor, then back to meet mine again. This man makes excellent eye contact; I’ll give him that.

He’s smiling genuinely now, and it changes his whole face. The skin at the corners of his mouth crinkle into almost dimples, and his eyes practically glitter in the dim light of the bar. I realize suddenly that he hasn’t taken those eyes off me for more than a second since he bumped into me, and I’m not exactly sure how I feel about it.

“I wasn’t,” I admit. “Sitting here, I mean. You and I had the same idea, it seems.”

His shoulders shake on a small laugh, which makes me smile, too. “Ah,” he says. His mouth twists to the side as if he’s considering his next words carefully. “Well, I’ll say I’m sorry your beer spilled, but I can’t say I’m sorry I bumped into you.”

I cock an eyebrow, the anger returning in a wave. “Why not?”