Sinclair

Chapter Four: Full Force

THE SILENCE THAT IS stretching across the bar as everyone watches to see what will happen is...uncomfortable, to say the least. Even though I know I should turn around and meet his eyes, I feel a lot like someone has given me some kind of drug that has rendered every limb in my body utterly useless.

I'm unable to turn.

He's still standing close behind me, although his lips have left my ear. His warmth is seeping through the thin material of my cardigan and it brings back too many memories. They all seem to spring into my head all at once. And it's like it was when I walked into this bar earlier today. That feeling of not knowing how much you missed something until it's suddenly right in front of you, within touching distance.

I have a feeling that if I turn now, that feeling will hit me at full force.

"You gonna say anything?" he asks. The deep, husky cadences of his voice send shivers from the crown of my head all the way to the tips of my toes.

I tell myself that I am absolutely prepared for this. I tell myself that I'll be fine. If I tell him I don't want a relationship anymore, surely he'll get the idea and let me go. But to do that, I'll need to look at him.

Taking a deep breath for courage, I turn slowly, praying that the two glasses of bourbon that I downed prior will give me even more courage.

When my eyes see him for the first time in a year, they can't help but be incredibly pleased. His hair is still longer than it should be, still cupping his ears the same way I remember. His gray eyes—like storm clouds rolling along an endless sky—are still every bit as captivating and intense as they were in the memories I had of him. His body is every bit as drool-worthy. The leather jacket with his crew's logo on it does nothing to hide those broad shoulders. The plain white T-shirt he wears underneath does nothing to hide his six-pack.

Fuck me over sideways. If I keep staring at him, I'm going to forget that I came here to tell him I don't want to see him again.

While my eyes were drinking him in, his eyes are drinking me in. He's basically eye fucking me at this point. His eyes moving up and down, here and there, resting in places that are inappropriate. Especially since everyone in this place is watching us curiously.

Getting ahold of himself, he looks over at Carla who is glancing rapidly between the two of us and says, "Get me the usual."

That seems to thaw her curiosity out as she makes the bitchiest face she can muster and mutters a sarcastic, "Sir, yes sir."

The entire bar thaws out after he says that. A couple of the guys head over to the pool table, a couple of them sit down at some of the old, rickety tables and some of them slide into the booths, occasionally shouting their orders to Carla who yells, "Yeah, yeah, I got it. Keep your fucking panties on, gentlemen." This earns her a round of deep, manly guffaws.

As this is happening, Sinclair sidles up next to me, leaning against the bar top and just looking at me. This feels very reminiscent of when we first met. He had leaned against the bar and watched me with those stormy eyes back then, too.

After finishing his drink, Carla slides it across the bar top and in Sinclair's direction. He catches it easily, never even taking his eyes off of me as he does so. With reflexes like that, you'd think the guy was training to go up against Batman or Wonder Woman.

"You look good, little goddess," he finally speaks after taking a long sip of his drink. "Very good, actually." He leans in a little closer. "It makes me remember our week in Paris in perfect detail."

At that moment, so much blood rushes to my face that I become slightly lightheaded. When we first started having sex, we couldn't keep our hands off of each other. So much so, that it actually made the guys and Carla sick. Carla constantly yelled at us to quote, "get a fucking room and stop dry-humping in my bar."