When he sits down at a bar with the intention of blocking out the entire world for one night by getting completely drunk, he gets completely drunk and literally blocks out everything, so he's not sure what drags him from his alcohol-induced haze, why he looks up from the counter to stare at the woman who just sat down to his right.
Only one glance and he can tell she is loaded: golden earrings and black trenchcoat and designer bag and all. Her hair is a polished copper sort of color, her eyes calm and voice steady as she asks the bartender for a drink, and he cannot help wondering rather bitterly what someone like her is doing at an establishment like this one.
She must feel the heat of his gaze, because she turns to look at him—and when their eyes lock, a strange, hot sensation that he's sure has nothing to do with how inebriated he is creeps up the back of his neck, settles heavily on his shoulders, crawls into his throat, and his breath catches—because he is positive he has never met her before, never seen those amber eyes before, but they are so searching and familiar he is nearly overcome with the urge to reach for her, pull her to him, bury his face in her hair and breathe you're alive across her skin.
She blinks and shifts uncomfortably in her seat; the overhead light sparkles off the diamond ring on her fourth finger; the moment passes and he turns back to his drink, wondering when the hell alcohol started making him so sentimental.