She handed him the dart. “I’ll see if I have any openings in my schedule, Tommy,” she said, roaming her eyes over his Tommy Bahama shirt. Another attempt to fit in. This shirt was so not his style.
He returned the favor, taking his time scanning her shirt with its smiling turtle illustration in the center. “Ah, so I was right. You’re Happy Turtle, the dart coach, correct?” He tilted his head to the side in question, and she laughed lightly as he bestowed a shirt-derived name on her, too.
She lifted her chin. “If you hit a bull’s-eye, I’ll give you your first dart lesson free, Tommy.”
“Can’t back down from that kind of offer.”
She leaned against the bar and took a drink as she eyed the board. She gestured to it, as if to say, “Go ahead—impress me.”
Jake was no dart pro, but he’d spent enough time in bars and enough time with men killing time that he knew what he was doing. He’d only missed the first shot because of her. Now he’d need to land it because of her.
Instinct kicked in. The instinct that told a man to impress a pretty woman. Such a simple force, but a driving one for nearly any red-blooded male. He raised his arm, took aim, and let the dart fly. Straight down the middle. Landing the shot.
She cheered. Thrust her arms high above her head and hooted and hollered. “Admit it,” she said, shaking a finger at him and narrowing her eyes. “You’re a dart ringer. You’ve been sent by the National Federation of Dart Experts to infiltrate island bars and impress women with your dart skills.”
“I’ve impressed you, then?” he asked, wanting to pump a fist and cheer at having accomplished his goal. Man, some days he was so damn simple. See pretty woman; impress pretty woman.
“You have indeed.”
“Take your turn, then. Let’s see how you do,” he said, inviting her with a sweep of his arm.
She parked one hand on her hip. “You doubt me,” she said with a curve of her lips. Mmmm, those lips . . . He shouldn’t stare at them, either, but looking away from a pretty little mouth like that was cause for turning in your man card. He liked keeping his man card. And he liked entertaining images of those lips and how they’d taste and feel.
He shrugged as if to say, “Bring it on.”
“Oh, you do! You totally doubt me. You think I marched in here, gave you orders, and can’t back them up.”
“Then show me, Happy Turtle,” he said, ready to keep this flirty banter going on for however long it could last. As he egged her on, a realization smacked him hard—it had been a damn long time since he’d had this kind of a casual, random flirtation with a stranger. Maybe work and women didn’t mix, but bars and beautiful women might be a perfect combination.
She took the dart from his hand slowly, making sure to brush her finger along his, or so it seemed. And hell, that slightest bit of contact tripped a switch in him. The switch that said more contact would be a fine way to spend the evening, thank you very much.
Matters south of the border started rising up.
Down, boy.
The woman never broke contact with his gaze as she stepped away. His brain didn’t issue any orders to look elsewhere this time. She was inviting him to stare, and he did unabashedly, drinking her in, his analytical mind adding up details both practical and physical. The fact that she was here in a bar alone told him she was either an alcoholic or a local. The deep tan said local was more likely, and the bikini top, covered up by the tank and surf shorts, suggested she was a beach bum or simply part of the tourist industry. The toned legs and firm arms said she wasn’t afraid to break a sweat.
He could think of plenty of ways to get sweaty with her.
She broke the eye contact, raised her arm, steadied her stance, and tossed. Right down the center.
“Holy shit,” he said with a low whistle of appreciation.
She shrugged playfully and blew on her nails. Too hot to handle. “My stepdad taught me,” she said, and something dark passed in those blue eyes when she said that, but it disappeared just as quickly as it came.
“He taught you well. But can you repeat?”
“Oh, ye of little faith,” she said, taunting him as she jutted out her chin. She proceeded to demonstrate her dart prowess, landing shot after shot, and schooling him in the barroom game.
When the match ended and Jake was thoroughly demolished, he extended a hand. “Congratulations. You are officially a goddess of darts and I am humbly destroyed.”
“I’ve always wanted to be a destructive goddess.”
“By the way, real name’s Jake.”
“Mine’s Ariel,” she said.
He quirked his eyebrows together. “Like the mermaid?”
She nodded, her blue eyes lighting up. “Very good.”
“Most men don’t get the reference when you give them your fake bar name for strangers?”
Her eyes widened, nearly popping out of her head. Her mouth fell open. “Wait. You knew my name wasn’t really Happy Turtle?”
He laughed, but he wasn’t bothered by the fake name or the way she teased. “It’s OK, Ariel. One, I have two sisters, so I know who Ariel is. Two, I have two sisters, so I know about fake bar names. Three, is your best friend a starfish?”
She leaned in closer, and he caught a faint whiff of her shampoo—smelled like coconuts. Perfect scent for an island woman. “I do that, too,” she whispered.
“Do what?” he asked, furrowing his brow.