Bad Boys Do. Victoria Dahl

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      “Need a refill?” he asked.

      “No!” she said too emphatically. His eyebrows rose. “I mean … I’m fine. Thanks.”

      “You don’t like beer, do you?”

      Olivia cringed. “No. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to denigrate your life’s work or anything….”

      “Oh, I think my self-worth will survive.” This time his smile was a little more natural, though no less dazzling.

      “It’s just too bitter for me. I’ve never liked it. No matter how light I try to go …”

      His eyes slid to the book club table. “Which one did you try?”

      “The pale one?”

      “India Pale Ale. There’s your mistake. Light isn’t always mild. India Pale Ale is notoriously hoppy. Extra hops were added to preserve it during shipment to India, hence the name.”

      “Oh, sure,” she said, nodding as if she understood. But the truth was that she’d tried plenty of beer in her life and she hadn’t liked any of it.

      “Try the amber,” he suggested.

      “Okay.” She started to turn away, but he raised a finger to stop her.

      “Here.” He filled a slim glass that appeared to be an overgrown cousin of a shot glass. She eyed the dark gold liquid with trepidation. She’d had no intention of trying the amber ale, but maybe he’d realized it. “Go ahead. I promise it’s milder than the pale ale.”

      With a shrug of resignation, Olivia took the glass from him and tried a sip. She was already grimacing when she realized it wasn’t so bad. “Oh.”

      “See? Told you.” His eyes crinkled with pleasure, and Olivia told herself that the warmth pooling inside her was the beer. “Even our porter is pretty mild, though you’re going to want to steer clear of the Blackjack Stout.”

      “Oh, no,” she protested when she saw him drawing a glass of chocolate-brown beer. “No way.”

      “Don’t you trust me?”

      That couldn’t be a serious question. Who the hell would trust this man and his sparkling green eyes? In fact, it was a little insulting that he’d flirt with her as if he meant it. Like she’d buy that this boy would be attracted to a thirty-five-year-old woman like her. Did he think she was so desperate she’d believe it?

      Olivia raised her chin and took the glass from his hand, ignoring the slide of his skin over hers. “I wouldn’t trust you in a million years,” she answered, but she took a generous sip of the beer anyway, amazed that it didn’t make her eyes water. It was actually kind of … smooth. “All right. Not bad.”

      “Have I ever lied to you?”

      She couldn’t help but laugh at that as she took her two tiny glasses and walked away. Every look from this guy was a lie, but they were pleasant lies, at least. Still, she knew better than to enjoy them too much. She’d fallen for that before. It was probably the only thing that Jamie Donovan had in common with Olivia’s ex-husband, Victor. Charm.

      So it was easy for her to walk back to the table and rejoin the women. Gwen, however, didn’t make it easy for Olivia.

      “Soooo,” she drawled as soon as Olivia sat down. “You were awfully cozy with Jamie over there.”

      “I was not. He just gave me a new beer to try, that’s all.”

      Gwen tapped one of the glasses. “Two new beers.”

      “Yes, two beers. Does that mean something? Is there a secret Donovan Brewery beer code, like the Victorian language of flowers?”

      Gwen collapsed onto the table, laughing so hard she snorted.

      “I hope you didn’t drive.”

      “Nah, I only live four blocks away.”

      “I can drive you home,” Olivia offered. She’d always liked Gwen, but they hadn’t really started talking until news of Olivia’s divorce had gone public. Over the past year, they’d gone out to lunch half a dozen times, and Gwen had confessed that it hadn’t always been easy for her to make female friends, either. A wave of one hand down her body had said it all. Gwen was a natural blonde with long legs and playmate-style assets. She was not the kind of friend that women brought home to meet the husband. But Olivia didn’t have a husband anymore. And she’d rather go to lunch with Gwen than think about dating again.

      Gwen finally sat up, wiping tears from her eyes. “You should totally hit that,” she said, pointing toward the bar.

      “Yeah, right. I’m sure I’m exactly his type.”

      “I think his ‘type’ is female, and you’ve got that covered. He’d be a really nice dip back into the old sexing pool.”

      “I thought it was the dating pool.”

      Gwen shook her head. “It’s a new world out there, Olivia.”

      “Oh, I know about the new world, and I am not interested in being a cougar, thank you very much.”

      “You’ve already been a trophy wife. Why don’t you try the other side of the coin?”

      Olivia finished off one of the sample glasses. “I was not a trophy wife. I didn’t have the necessary qualifications.” She eyed Gwen’s chest with an obvious quirk of her brow.

      “Yeah, but Victor was twelve years older than you, right? So go younger this time.”

      Even as she shook her head, she spared a glance for Jamie. “How old is he, anyway?”

      “I’m not sure. Twenty-five? Twenty-six? He’s in his damn prime.”

      “My God, he’s just a baby.”

      But apparently Olivia was the only one who felt that way. Amidst a lot of smothered laughter, one of the women approached the pool table and made a big show of putting the quarters in for a game. Olivia looked on, confused by the merriment, until the woman—was it Marie?—stood up and aimed an exaggerated frown at the table. “Jamie?” she called. “The pool table’s jammed!”

      Jamie came around the bar, wiping his hands on a towel.

      “It took my money, but it didn’t give me any balls,” she pouted.

      “Well, I’d better take a look.” He slung the towel over his shoulder and crouched down, and Olivia finally understood what was going on. His kilt hitched up, revealing a few inches of strong thigh, and even though Olivia thought this was a childish prank, she stared right along with everyone else. She wondered what those thighs felt like. Hard, she thought. Thick with muscle. Strong. They looked like they’d taste damn good, too.

      He slammed a fist into the coin mechanism, then pulled several times. Ropes of muscle flexed and relaxed.

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