Just One Night - Carolyn Faulkner

Chapter 1

"I've never had a one night stand."

Her soft—and somehow sweet, too—confession surprised him, although he controlled his reaction carefully. He didn't want to make her feel uncomfortable about whatever choices she'd made in life that had led her to be what he roughly estimated to be nearly forty and having managed not to have what had become a quintessential experience for most people.

But it fit her, somehow, fit what he was only just beginning to realize about her. She wasn't like everyone else, and that was a big plus in his book.

He'd been watching her since he'd come into what was essentially just a step above a dive bar, and his eyes had been drawn to her immediately. She was sitting at the bar, looking incredibly uncomfortable and out of place, checking her phone compulsively and sipping—not on the ubiquitous white wine or fruity drink, but what looked to be some kind of whiskey or bourbon on the rocks.

Although he'd walked by her—within about five feet—and they were the only ones in the place, she never looked at him. He was invisible to her, and he relished that rare commodity as he took a seat at the back of the bar.

"What can I getcha?" The burly barkeep nodded at him.

"Whatever you have on tap is fine."

It appeared in front of him a minute later, and as he took a sip and was surprised by how good it was, his eyes flitted to her so often that he had to remind himself not to stare. But it was damned hard not to.

"Jesus fucking Christ." She sounded royally pissed, dropping her phone—which had apparently provided her with highly annoying information—on the bar with a sigh. She seized the drink in front of her and downed its contents in one gulp, pushing the glass toward the bartender. "Can I have another, please and thank you? Make it a double?"

From the back of the bar, she heard a deep, male voice ask, "May I buy you that drink?"

She started, confirming his hypothesis that she had no idea he was even in the bar with her, turning around on the stool to see him for the first time.

He was not her type at all, but then, her husband hadn't been, either—not that that was a good comparison, considering that she was no longer married.

The phrase "whipcord lean" came to mind as she noticed how he was man-spreading those annoyingly long legs in a way that belied his obviously expensive suit. Wavy, black, shoulder length hair—she preferred short—and startlingly green eyes amidst an angular face that looked like its expressions more than occasionally bordered on cruel didn't detract from his looks—if you liked that kind of thing—in the least.

Nope. Not her type at all. She did like tall men, loving an almost cartoonish difference in heights between herself and her partner. But she also liked them broad and Y-shaped and didn't mind at all if they needed to lose twenty pounds or so. Her type was big and teddy-bearish, and the man offering to pay for her drink was closer to Jack Skellington without the Goth elements.

But his voice was a saving grace, the low but obviously powerful British accent insinuating itself into her brain and relaxing her against her will.

As she was looking at him, he was doing the same thing, drinking in his fill of her, not that he hadn't already done that. He could tell that she didn't recognize him, even now. Anonymity had fallen by the wayside long ago for him, and it was oddly refreshing that she wasn't running toward him with her phone up, asking—expecting—sometimes downright demanding, which he always refused—to take a selfie. More points for her. A lot more points.

One of the most startling things about her was that when he felt her eyes settle on him, she might as well have reached out and cupped his genitals. He became instantly hard, closing his legs even though it was uncomfortable to do so, and unfurling a napkin over his lap in a way he hoped didn't broadcast his reason for doing so.

Those bright eyes remained on his for a long moment. Her face was slightly rounded and makeup free, he noticed, which was another point in her favor. Her cheeks were flushed a pretty pink from the alcohol. She wasn't his usual type at all, but he thought she looked stunning, and he was hoping harder than he'd had to in a long time that she would let