Chapter 3
3
The restaurant on the corner has a cool modern bar. White walls, tan leather seats, and lots of hanging plants. I like the way sunlight streams in through the skylights, making the inside feel like you’re outside. Our work events are often held here. Birthdays and send-offs, et cetera. The dinner crowd has yet to arrive. It is mostly those wanting to hang somewhere on a Saturday afternoon.
I take a seat at the end of the bar on a stool and stare into eternity for a moment. Of course, eternity for me is apparently up next week. My brain is an even bigger disaster than before. But everything will be all right. I just need to sit quietly and calm down. Sort this whole situation out within the quiet confines of my skull and decide what to do.
“Can I get you something?” asks the bartender, an older woman with short cropped gray hair and one of those nose piercings. The kind that hangs through the middle part. “Hello?”
“Sorry. I’ll, um... You know what? I’ll have a Bloody Mary.”
She nods and gets busy mixing the vodka, tomato juice, and spices.
I ignore the man who slides onto the stool next to me. I ignore him with all my heart and soul and then some.
“Did you hit your head?” he asks. “You know, when you crashed the car?”
Funny how that idea keeps coming up. “No.”
Turns out he’s hard to ignore. The cap and sunglasses are gone. He sits facing me with his back to the rest of the world. “I’ve had some odd reactions to people recognizing me. But that was particularly unusual back there.”
“Particularly unusual,” I repeat. “Is that the best you can come up with?”
“Fucking weird?”
I nod. “Better.”
“You actually ran away from me,” he says with something close to wonder. “After almost hitting my car and telling me I wasn’t me.”
“Yep. That about sums it up.”
He stares at me for a long moment while I ignore him some more. Any hope of him losing interest and going away, however, is dashed when he asks, “So what’s the story?”
“Hmm?”
“You said something about a woman being right. What did you mean?”
“Do you always ask this many questions?”
The bartender places a napkin along with the impressive red concoction in front of me. It is embellished with a stick of celery and a cocktail pick loaded with an olive, a pickled onion, a gherkin, and a cube of cheese. How great is a cocktail that comes with its own snacks?
“Thank you,” I say. “It looks amazing.”
“I’m not staying,” the stranger tells the waiting bartender when she asks if he’d like a drink.
“Then you should go.” I take a sip of the drink and holy shit . “Whoa. That’s spicy.”
The corners of his eyes crinkle in amusement. “You’ve never had a Bloody Mary before?”
“No. But I always wanted to try one. No time like the present.” Then it occurs to me. I slap the palm of my hand on the wooden bar top. “Septum. It’s called a septum piercing. Gah. I hate it when I get all worked up and lose words. It is so annoying.”
His mouth opens slightly but nothing comes out. The way he’s watching me...it’s actually closer to amusement than wonder now. His scales of judgment have definitely tipped in the wrong direction when it comes to me.
Some of the paprika dusted around the rim of the glass has fallen on me. I carefully brush off my fifties-style cream-colored short-sleeve top and navy pants. “I bet you’re perfect and never get frazzled or forget anything.”
His gaze jumps from my breasts to my face. So busted. “I wouldn’t say that,” he says.
“Whatever. You were leaving.”
“I was actually waiting for you to tell me your story.”
“I never agreed to that. Who says there even is a story?”
“Oh, there’s definitely a story,” he says. “I can feel it. And wouldn’t it be great to get it off your chest?”
“Your concern for my chest has been noted. Thanks.”
He has the good grace to look mildly ashamed. But not for long, and it doesn’t stop him from once again demanding, “Tell me.”
“No. I’d prefer not to.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’ll think it’s stupid. I think it’s stupid.” A sigh. “Why do you even care? Where is this sudden concern for a commoner like me coming from?”
“Commoner.” He snorts. “I don’t know. It’s not like there aren’t things I should be doing. Call it curiosity. My gran always said I had an excess of the stuff.”
“Great.” I down more of the drink and watch him out of the corner of my eye. If I avoid direct eye contact, he might go away. A girl can hope. “The Tabasco is a lot. But there’s a hint of citrus too. I think it’s lime juice.”
“Bartenders tend to have their own recipes. But it’s usually some combination of pickle juice, horseradish, and Worcestershire sauce.”
“Look at you, being all fancy and correctly pronouncing woos...wooster...whatever that sauce is called.”
“Worcestershire?” He bites back a smile. “If I promise not to think your story is stupid, will you tell me?”
“Will you promise to go away if I do?”
“Sure.”
He sounds sincere. But I need to see his face to know if I can trust him to keep his word. That’s what I tell myself, at any rate. There is nothing wrong with his strong jawline and high forehead. His nose, however, is almost too large for his face. Nice to know he’s not perfect. He has well-proportioned lips and a subtle natural sort of pout. But it’s the air of rugged masculinity that pulls the whole thing together. The whole thing being him. It’s clear why the press calls him Prince Charming. He definitely qualifies for dashing and dreamy.
And he sits and waits with amiable patience while I look him over.
“Well?” he asks finally.
“You’re too handsome. I don’t trust you.”
He’s not as successful at smothering his smile this time. “This from the woman who bedazzled poor Paul from security and left him to deal with her mess.”
“You mean like with rhinestones?”
“No. I do not.”
“I did kind of lose it back there,” I say. “I’ll have to buy Paul something nice to say thank you. But I object to you saying I bedazzled him.”
He just raises a brow. Jerk.
“Be real. I’m a solid six. And there is nothing wrong with being a six. Now and then, when I’m in the right mood, I happen to have a great personality,” I say. “But unlike you with your pretty privilege, I don’t go around just... Why are you looking at me like that?”
“How should I look when you’re talking rubbish?”
“It’s not rubbish , it’s trash . We’re in America. We have trash. Get it right.”
“Whatever,” he says, quoting me back to me. “Just tell me the story. Why are you drinking that? You obviously don’t like it. What else haven’t you tried?”
“I don’t know. I’m too busy spiraling to know things.”
He gives me a long look. Then he picks up the drink menu. “Do you like champagne?”
“Not really.”
“That just means you haven’t sampled the good stuff.” He gestures for the bartender and says, “A glass of... Actually, make it a bottle of Dom Pérignon for the lady, please.”
I push my Bloody Mary aside and rest an elbow on the bar. “You’re buying me a bottle of champagne?”
“I am,” he confirms, as if surprised himself.
“Why?”
“In all honesty, you look like you need it. Badly.”
I snort. “Thanks.”
“And I really want that story.”
“You’re used to getting what you want, aren’t you?”
In lieu of a response, he removes his leather jacket and lays it on the bar. Of course, his biceps are sublime, with just the right amount of bulge. The man needs to get away from me. I only just had my heart trampled last night. Though it’s hard to worry about Josh and his wandering ways in the face of everything else going on.
My unwanted companion watches me as the bartender sets down two glasses and the bottle in a bucket of ice. Once she pours the champagne, he gives her a curt nod. As if he has been waited on hand and foot for the better part of his life and is comfortable with it. As if it is his due. Which makes sense since he’s sort of royalty.
I pick up the glass and take a cautious sip. There’s the usual faint taste of fruit and bubbles, but better. It is delicious, and the happy humming noise I make gives it away. Dammit.
“Look at you, all angry that I was right,” he says with glee. Asshole. “Now tell me the story.”
“Fine. But you’re not going to believe me.” I hold up my hand, showing him the cuts on my palm, half healed and covered in scabs. So gross. “My hip is also one big bruise, but you’ll forgive me if I don’t show you that.”
“What happened?”
“Last night I saved a woman from getting hit by a car. We started crossing the street, and I saw it coming. There was no evidence it was slowing for the red light. So I just sort of grabbed her and pulled us back toward the sidewalk. Still can’t believe it worked.”
“You were lucky.”
“Very,” I say. “This is where it gets strange. The woman was a witch hired to be the entertainment at my best friend’s birthday. And when it was my turn to talk to her, I had no idea what to say. But then her two hours were up, and she wanted to go home.”
“Right.”
“As a thank-you for saving her from getting hit by the car, she told me some things. Made some predictions. Like how my boyfriend was cheating on me and that I would get passed over for a promotion again at work.”
He cocks his head. “You don’t actually believe her?”
“I didn’t. Not at first. I still don’t want to. But when I got home last night, my boyfriend had company. There was a naked woman hiding in my bathroom. Can you believe that shit?”
“Ouch.”
“Then when I got to work today, my boss told me not to bother applying for an upcoming promotion. She had already decided to give the position to Brian.”
His blue eyes are serious. “That’s awful. But surely these are just—”
“Coincidences?” I finish with a bitter smile. “Yeah. That’s what I thought too. The problem is, the witch also told me the name of my supposed soulmate.”
“And?”
“It’s you.”
Laughter bursts out of him. “Good story.”
“You think I’m lying?”
“I think you’re extremely entertaining. Enjoy the champagne.” He hands a black credit card to the bartender. And he’s still smiling and shaking his head when she hands him the receipt. Then he turns to me and says, “Have a nice life.”
I should shut up and let him leave. It would probably be for the best. But it feels so good to talk to someone about it. To air my anxieties. Whether I’m talking or trauma-dumping is debatable. “She mentioned something about that too. Apparently, my time is up a week from tomorrow.”
He pauses. “What?”
“She said I die in eight days.”
“Bullshit.”
“I wholeheartedly concur. But three in a row, you know?”
Nothing from him.
I hate this...feeling fragile. It’s not me at all. “She also told me tonight’s lotto numbers. I bought a ticket, and if I don’t win, then I’ll know. I’ll laugh at how gullible I was and put this all behind me with a great sense of relief.”
He still hasn’t moved. All six feet something of him just stands there frowning. He is seriously displeased. A lesser woman would shake in her shoes, but honestly, at this point what have I got to lose? “This actually happened, didn’t it?” he asks. “The witch and you almost getting hit by a car and all that?”
“Yes, it did.”
“And you believe what she said.”
“That’s the problem. I honestly don’t know what to believe. I mean, there are a lot of people in this city. What is the likelihood of us meeting? What were you even doing in the library parking lot?”
“Dropping some of my mother’s first editions off for a display.”
“Then we would have crossed paths either way,” I say, somewhat vindicated. “My boss had asked me to meet you for the handoff. But I was upset about Brian and the promotion and walked out.”
He keeps staring at me, and it is all too much. Today has been stressful enough. I turn away and, oh, this is awkward. I’ve changed my mind. It would be better if he left. Then I’ll just sit here quietly and work on both my buzz and forgetting the many ways in which I have embarrassed myself. He must think I am a walking red flag. A stalker with a wild story or something. Nothing else makes sense.
The irony of me trying to be mindful and make careful choices throughout my adult life. To make my parents proud. And here I am in a bar with a pity bottle of Pérignon, waiting for fucking lottery balls to decide my fate.
My cell buzzes with a text. It’s from Paul.
Tow truck on the way. All sorted out.
I reply: I’m so sorry I freaked out and ran. Thank you again.
Paul sends a thumbs-up emoji. He’s a good person.
Meanwhile, Alistair is still standing there with his coat in hand. “Are you really just going to sit here alone until the draw?”
“That’s the plan.”
He swears under his breath and sits back down. Then he picks up his glass of champagne and downs it in one gulp.
“You’re staying?” I ask.
“Apparently.” His forehead is wrinkled to heck and back. The man is not happy. He signals the bartender and orders a coffee. “Only for a while, and for the record, I am definitely not your soulmate. I just don’t like the idea of you sitting alone worrying yourself sick about this.”
I ponder his words and sigh. He has a point. Being alone with all of this is a lot. But I don’t want to worry any of my friends and family. Not yet, at least. “That’s nice of you. Even if you are breaking your word about leaving. But I would like to point out that I didn’t say we were soulmates. I just got out of a bad relationship and may or may not hate all men. I haven’t quite decided yet. It was the witch who—”
“We don’t need to keep talking about it,” he says, cranky as can be. “Any of it.”
“Fine.” I pour myself another glass of champagne. “Why don’t we sit here in silence, then? Let’s just not talk at all.”
“Sounds good to me.”