Her jeans hug her hips and ass in all the right spots as she stands on her tiptoes, bare shoulders displaying freckles up and down her arms. I glance at her left hand, grinning when I see it empty of a ring. A familiar tug draws me in, like I’ve experienced this woman before in some capacity. Instinctively, I step forward, approaching her, a moth to a flame.

“Hey, gorgeous,” I say near her ear, resting my elbow on the counter.

My greeting initiates a frenzy of spinning and drink spilling. Half the contents of her cup end up on my jeans as her hip rubs against my upper thigh.

“Can I help you with so—Henry?”

It’s not just any woman standing here.

It’s Emma.

Gaping at me while looking like a fucking angel made out of sunshine.

An angel with an ass that’s perfect and round.

An angel that looks like she might murder me.

What the hell?

“Sorry about that. I thought you were someone else.” I toss her what I hope is a believable lie, wincing at how stupid it sounds.

“Someone else? Do you frequently accost women waiting for drinks who want nothing to do with you?” she snaps. The beverages in her hands slosh over the side and into the crevice between her thumb and pointer finger. It’s the same finger she jabbed into my chest earlier, the press of her fingertip still embedded in my muscles.

“I can assure you I didn’t know who you were. If I had, I would have gone down to the hot bartender and not wasted another second on an inevitable rejection. You’re far from my type.”

An emotion akin to disappointment and hurt flashes through her blue eyes. It’s so subtle, so covert, I can’t legitimize it actually happening. Then, she blinks, and the fire returns, blazing hotter than before.

“What are you even doing here? Don’t you have a woman to be with?”

“Jealous?” I ask. “I’m with my buddies tonight. We’re celebrating. Kind of a big day and all. What are you doing here?”

“I’m with my friend. Also celebrating,” she fires back.

That bite in her tone is something else. I’ve always fucking loved and appreciated how feisty she gets. Emma is never meek or submissive, and I enjoy her tenacity, even when it’s directed at me.

“Look at us both celebrating. Sounds like the start of a great movie.” I grin. “Maybe we’ll fall in love and live happily ever after. How many kids should we have? Three? Four? You want a house with a white picket fence?”

I’m pushing her buttons, teetering way too close to a dangerous ledge without a safety restraint, unable to stop.

Why the fuck am I asking her these questions?

Does she really want a white picket fence?

Would she prefer an apartment or condo?

How about a yard?