“Fuck! Not you again,” Raf moaned as the last person he wanted to see slid into the seat opposite his. “Who did I piss off this time?”
It was Friday evening. The bar was busy and Skylar Payne invariably drew attention. Attention Raf neither wanted nor needed. He hadn’t seen Skylar in almost four months, something about a film project out in the States if he recalled correctly.
Four months was too short a time to forget someone who went to endless lengths to make an impression. Raf knew, because he’d tried. Hard. He’d even thought he’d been successful, until the familiar figure materialised right in front of his eyes.
As usual, the violet-eyed menace was dressed to impress. His jeans were sinfully tight and artfully ripped to flash skin when Raf least expected it. The vintage Henley stretched taut over trim shoulders and a muscled chest in a way that was way too enticing. Pitch-black hair shone in the artificial light of the bar and… really… was that glitter?
“Yeah,” Raf sighed as he drained his pint. “I really wish I knew who I’ve pissed off this time around.”
“Me,” Skylar smirked, not amused by either the intense scrutiny or the comment. “I was in line for the next James Bond film. So picture my excitement when I’m told to back out and come save your sorry ass.”
The mere thought of Skylar saving his anything sent a spike of heat through Raf’s body and he pressed the empty beer glass to his face to hide the sudden flush. “My sorry ass doesn’t need saving. Certainly not by you.”