Free Jahleel by S. Ann Cole Page A

sorry!”
    “Not a problem,” Amanda squeaked.
    “ Love your new haircut, by the way,” she complimented.
    “Thanks!” she squeaked again, peering over Tiara’s shoulder. I wondered why in the world she kept squeaking. It was so unlike her.
    A passer-by stopped and touched Tiara, congratulating her. Amanda took the opportunity to lean over to me, whispering, “Twelve o’clock. Ohmi fucking god…”
    Glancing in the direction she indicated, my gaze immediately clashed with Chad’s. In all-black again, he was rather casual for the event, in close-fitted jeans, plain V-neck tee, and a cross pendant chain around his neck. His hair a wild, wild, but sexy mess.
    Bloody hell, he was scrumptious.
    One elbow on the counter, feet crossed at the ankles, he was leaning against the circular stainless steel bar right across from where we sat. He kept his head down, creating the illusion he was looking into the brandy snifter in his hand, but his eyes were raised and staring straight at me.
    “Shite,” I whispered. “What’s he doing here?”
    Before she could answer, Tiara spun back around from her conversation, caught us staring and followed our gazes. “Chad,” she breathed. “Freakin’ hot, isn’t he? Don’t bother looking, though. He’s a hard one to catch. Way too picky.”
    Now, this, this irritated me. Turning to her, I tried not to sound acerbic, “Heard you’re with his best friend, yeah?”
    “JK,” she whispered to herself, almost like a prayer. Then she spat, “He’s an asshole. Fucks around. Total commitment-phobe.”
    Taking a deep breath, she blinked rapidly, looking upwards as if fighting to hold back tears. “Excuse me,” she croaked out, then turned and broke into a jog, disappearing through the crowd. No doubt about to go lock herself in a bathroom to bawl her eyes out.
    “Soooo glad I’m over that dude.”
    Amanda scoffed. “Yeah, right.”
    Tossing my hair over my shoulder, I said, “I’ll prove it”, then slid off the stool and started over towards Chad, leaving Amanda with an amused smirk on her face.
    Chad kept his eyes on me as I sashayed over to the bar, pulled up a stool next to him and sat with one leg crossed over the other, hip provocatively jutted out. The ole flirt pose.
    Chad watched me with a slightly raised brow, gaze traveling from my legs straight up, landing dead on my face. Bringing his snifter of amber liquid to his lips, he took a slow sip, peering over the rim. Then, lowering the glass, he licked his lower lip and asked, “You came over here to flirt with me, Saskia?”
    Tossing my hair again—which was so unlike me, by the way—I peered at him from under my lashes. “Maybe.”
    With a slight shake of his head, he made a disappointed sound and turned his gaze from me, out to the crowd. “You might wanna go back over there, then, because I hate women who flirt.”
    Splat . I felt as if he just took my head and shoved it into a pile of cow dodo. “What?”
    Turning to face me, he dipped one long finger into his drink and absentmindedly began circling it, the cubes of ice clinking against the glass. And I imagined that one long, wet finger moving in that same circular movement over my clitoris…
    “Flirting is an act,” he said, breaking through my inappropriate thoughts. “It’s not real. I’m attracted to real . Very attracted to women who keep their mouths shut and allow me to read what they want on their faces, in their eyes. Because that’s where the truth lies.”
    Removing his wet finger from the glass, he slipped it in his mouth and sucked it off as if it was nothing. As if women who were watching from afar wouldn’t faint at the mere act, wishing it was their finger between those shapely lips. Did he have any idea how hot he was?
    “I thought you were real, Saskia,” he continued in that disillusioned tone. “Guess I misread. Sorry.”
    He turned and redirected his attention out to the crowd, as if dismissing me.
    The hell? Did he not