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  Chapter One: Beau

  For maybe the tenth time in as many minutes, I desperately regret the decision to accompany my buddies to some nightclub in West Hollywood. For starters, I'm 36 years too old for this shit, I hate clubs and crowds, and my idea of a good time is grilling a bunch of meat at home, and then eating that meat, preferably with a tumbler of something amber and strong on the side.

  And yet, I let the guys on my team convince me to come out with them to celebrate the work we just completed on our most recent job site. That's one thing nobody prepared me for about being a boss -- how much of the job includes doing shit you don't want to do, just for the sake of keeping the team happy.

  This is why I find myself waiting at a crowded bar, in a packed, sweaty club, for the bartender to have mercy on me and take my order.

  "What's the point of having phenomenal tits if not to get better service from bartenders?" a sweet female voice mumbles near me.

  I'm smiling as I turn toward her, more than a little curious about these 'phenomenal tits.'

  When I catch a full glimpse of her, the smile dies on my lips, and suddenly I feel like I can't take in enough oxygen. She's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, with her hair falling in long chestnut waves, eyes that seem almost violet under the club lights, and a full, lush mouth made for seduction and sin.

  Just as I'm trying to make sense of her -- is she a model? an actress? how long can I stare at her without making things uncomfortable? -- she clears her throat.

  "Hey buddy, my tits are down here," she says, clearly picking up on the fact that I haven't even been able to look away from her face. That's how stunned I am by her beauty.

  Slowly, I shake my head and run my hand down my face. She seems to be waiting for something. She's watching me with an expectant smirk. Oh. Right.

  I quite obviously let my eyes drift lower, down to her extremely low neckline which reveals a pair of truly perfect tits. I can tell that they're more than a handful, and I have big fucking hands. They look so soft and bouncy, all I want is to bury my face in them and never come up for air. I've never motor-boated a woman in my life and suddenly it's all I can think about. With this woman. Fuck.

  "They're good, right?" she asks, but she already knows the answer and is messing with me.

  "You're right, they're phenomenal."

  She lets out an exasperated huff. "Exactly! So why the hell am I still waiting so long to order a damn drink?"

  "Maybe the bartender is gay," I say.

  She frowns. "I didn't get that vibe from him, but you know what, you could be right. My gaydar isn't tuned to LA quite yet."

  She considers me for a moment.

  "In that case," -- she reaches out to me, deftly unbuttoning the top three buttons from my dress shirt so that my chest is practically on full display.

  "That can't hurt, right? Cover all our bases. If you get called up first, I'd like an old-fashioned please," she says.

  I'm once again stunned. This woman is like nobody I've ever met. Who just undresses a stranger like that in the middle of a club? Furthermore, am I upset about it?

  No.

  Hell no.

  I'm not upset about it. I'm pretty sure my skin is still on fire from the light graze of her finger as she worked my buttons free. It was a tiny sliver of a moment, not even half a second, but I feel like I've been branded all the same.

  "So, how about you?" she asks.

  I feel like I'm moving underwater and I can't keep up with her. What is she asking me?

  "If I get up there first, what would you like?"

  I shake my head to hopefully clear the damn cobwebs. "Uh...Bulleit. Rye. Neat."

  She eyes me curiously, biting her plump lip as if to hold herself back from saying something.

  "What?" I ask. "What did you want to say?"

  She flashes me a flirty smile and fixes those violet eyes on me, and I swear she's somehow reached into my chest to squeeze my heart.

  "I just feel like you said that in a real movie action hero sort of way. 'Bulleit. Rye. Neat'" she says, making her voice low and gravelly to mock me.

  I can't help the smile that forms upon hearing her rib me. "What's your name?" I ask.

  "Charlie... well, Charlotte, but please call me Charlie," she says.

  "Nice to meet you, Charlie. I'm Beau... well, Beauregard. Please call me Beau," I say, mirroring her introduction.

  She cocks her head to the side, looking amused. "Beauregard, huh? Are you a reincarnated Confederate soldier, or...?"

  I can't help my burst of laughter as she makes fun of my name. She smiles in delight, biting her plump lip and driving me crazy in the process.

  "Charlie, honey, what am I going to do with you?" I ask, finally regaining some of the usual flirtatious swagger that I seem to have lost when I first laid eyes on her.

  BRAZENLY BEAU

  Chapter Two: Charlie

  'What am I going to do with you?'

  Kiss me, hold me, take me home, I want to say. I've never felt such a connection to a guy... ever. To say this has been unexpected is an understatement, but I can't ignore the pull I feel towards Beau.

  I'm not typically even flirty with strangers, but there's just something about this gruff, sexy mountain of a man who seems slightly out of place at this bougie nightclub. He's dressed appropriately for the club, at least enough to not look out of place among the regulars. He wears a blue chambray button-down and a pair of tan chinos that are tight enough to barely contain his muscular thighs. His shoes are scuffed leather desert boots, and I can tell that they weren't like that when he bought them, which I love. But still, scuffed boots notwithstanding, there's nothing about him at first glance that screams, I'm an outsider at this club.

  Maybe it's the way he stands still in this crowded mass of people clamoring to order drinks. Most guys around us are constantly scanning their periphery for fresh prey, or they're preening in the mirrors above the bar, or they're pretending to be so engrossed in the story their date tells them while they secretly check out the girl behind her. What I'm saying is, most guys are trash.

  But him? We'd been standing here for several minutes when I noticed that just being next to him was having a calming effect on me. He didn't fidget, didn't glance around looking for a target, didn't constantly check his phone, experiencing FOMO because his friends were elsewhere.

  He just... stood there. It was the strangest thing I'd witnessed in a while, which must be why I struck up a conversation with him and tricked him into looking at my tits. I've been told that they're my best feature, and I'm not ashamed to say that I wanted him to notice them and, by extension, me.

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