Those blue eyes grabbed me by the balls when she shifted her gaze toward me. “I’m not sleeping with you for buying me a drink.”

I like her style. A smile crossed my face for the first time since I got the call from my grandfather that it was time to trot along home.

“That won’t be why.” I turned on my stool and held out a hand, driven by pure habit. “I’m—”

“Save it, city boy. I don’t need to know your name to drink your tequila. I’m never going to see you again, anyway.”

She saved me from giving up my identity, which made her attitude even sexier—and made me want to prove her wrong. That was a special talent of mine.

“Why do you think I’m a city boy?”

She glanced down at my wrist. “Fancy watch.” Her gaze dropped to my shoes. “And those aren’t biker boots, hiking boots, or steel toes. You’re not from around here.”

She was wrong, but she was also right in a way. I was from Gable, but I wasn’t raised here. My parents hired private tutors for me until I turned twelve, and then I was sent to boarding school. The same for my brother, but not my sister. My parents didn’t think she needed a boarding school education because she could catch herself a husband in college. Thankfully, she was going to be a junior at Yale, and had more of a head for business than an eye for frat boys.

In the interest of maintaining my anonymity, I nodded in agreement before tilting my head to look at the worn heeled boots she was wearing with her short denim skirt.

“Do your boots mean you are from around here?”

Instead of answering my question, she stood up on the lower rung of the bar stool and reached over the bar to swipe a shot glass. The denim strained against her ass, and I knew I shouldn’t look, but there was no way to fight that losing battle.

Jesus Christ, she’s the full package.

As she sat, she splashed tequila out of the bottle until it filled her shot glass to the rim. “Born and raised, and all I want to do is get out of this town. I’ve had enough.”

I watched as she tipped the tequila back, shooting it like an expert before smacking the glass back on the scarred wood. My attention stuck on the red lipstick print on the glass. I knew where I’d rather see those red lips.

When my dick stiffened against my zipper, I cut off that line of thinking. I wasn’t about to sit in a biker bar with a hard-on like a thirteen-year-old boy.

I dragged my gaze to her face, which was no hardship at all. Every time I looked at her, I noticed something different. The little freckle above her red lips this time.

Fucking Christ, she’s gorgeous.

She raised an eyebrow, and I realized I’d been staring at her longer than I should have. I snapped myself out of her spell and tried to remember what the fuck we were talking about.