Chapter 12
TWELVE
Not having to lie to my friends and Uncle about actually having a life outside of work, and leaving my apartment for social purposes will be a pleasant change of pace for me.
Despite the fact that my boss will be there.
And chaotic Theodore Walker.
How the two of them remain friends, I do not know.
Maybe tonight will uncover that confounding mystery.
Looking at the clock and seeing how late it’s already gotten, I hurry.
Thankfully, my friends forced me to pack fancier clothes before I left for Barcelona, chucking as many impractical items into the corners of my luggage as they could fit.
None have gotten any use before tonight, since my usual work attire consists of pants, tank top, and an oversized apron, and because I prefer to lounge in cozy formless clothes at home.
So this—I lift up a fitted, siren-pink summer dress—isn’t something I’ve worn in a long time. It’s snug around the boobs, cinches the waist, and flows over my legs, parting on the side where a slit climbs halfway up my thigh.
After putting it on, I apply make-up magic on my face.
Before leaving the apartment, I check myself out in the mirror.
Years of learning my body shape and experimenting have taught me how to dress my curves.
I don’t pep talk myself in the mirror saying bigger is beautiful because women of all sizes are beautiful.
We all have our own vessels that carry our soul and get us around the world.
Sure, people have opinions of me. But I try to make my own opinion the loudest in my head.
Yes, I am devastatingly hot tonight.
When I arrive at the bar, it is dimmed and packed with groups of people drifting with sanguine expectations.
There is space for a dance floor, although most people crowd around tables and laugh around bar tops, two set up on opposite ends of the space.
A husky melody croons through speakers, lyrics of shared cigar puffs and chocolate licked off skin.
It’s sexy and dive-like. Jazzy and bustling.
As I make my rounds, trying to find my forced company for the evening, a few men look me over as I pass by them.
Their lingering eyes make my hips sway scantily, but no one stirs anything enough to dally behind.
Pity. This place is full of boning potential, as my friends would say.
High possibility I can find someone to fondle my breasts as I like and massage an O out of me after some guided instructing, if that’s what I want.
It doesn’t appear to be, though. The idea of debaucheries in a night of stringless passion is not awakening any fun interest down below.
What’s up with me recently?
Even family and financial stress can’t explain it away, since this isn’t the first time I’ve experienced those particular conditions and it won’t be the last. A good romp should be a distraction from your troubles, so why wouldn’t I be even more interested in Barcelona?
Finally spotting Theo at a table, I wade through the crowd to him.
He perks up, grinning lopsidedly. “If my parts liked your parts, darling, I could just die. What a stunning dress, body, and face, Rita.”
“Pretty words don’t work on me.”
He pushes forward a plate of food. “How about nachos?”
“Then you’ve got me.”
Before I can sit down, a gruff voice interrupts us.
“That’s my seat.”
Ready to stake my claim, I turn around. And freeze.
Luke Abbot…is not wearing a suit.
And somehow it’s worse.
Much worse.
There is no usual tailored suit jacket separating the public from his chest. Only a long-sleeved black shirt, its material far too thin and soft-looking to count as a true barrier.
Biceps are outlined. What’s even way worse is how his sleeves are rolled up, the diabolical purpose to draw focus to those hands .
Long fingers, wide palms, the right amount of raised veins.
They could hold you up or pin you down with no effort.
My eyes crawl downward.
Slim-cut fitted pants finish off the look.
There are other details too, but I work hard not to notice them, lessening the ammunition being added to my misery. Because that spark down there I’ve been lamenting the loss of? It’s piquing, obviously not accounting for taste or personality. Silly vagina, be better .
“You look—” I start but don’t finish.
His eyes are everywhere but my face.
“You look—” he starts but also doesn’t finish.
What?
When I try to meet his gaze, he refuses to make contact.
Before I can think anything further, he crossly moves to get another chair for the table.
Deciding I’m going to be annoyed as well, I drop into his seat because his property claims won’t work here.
We’re outside his domain. I can sit wherever I want and do whatever I want.
“Well, that was certainly interesting,” notes Theo, visibly intrigued.
Ignoring him too, I eat some nachos.
When Luke returns with his chair, he surveys the cheesy heart attack pile with fleeting disdain before his attention is consumed by watching others in the bar, his posture rudely half-turned away from the table, barring the few times Theo and I crunch hard enough on a tortilla chip for him to perturbedly glare our way.
He obviously doesn’t want to be here.
Deciding it matters not, I engage Theo in conversation. My most immediate questions are: Why? Why be friends with Luke? You are literal opposites? Was it a forced rooming situation? Is there remnant Stockholm Syndrome at play? What has kept you together?
With my boss sitting there, these inquiries might feel pointed.
So I keep them circling in the back of my head as Theo tells me how he’s in town for a mindless vacation, that Manhattans are his favorite, which is why he orders us both a round, and how his heart continues to be pulverized after his most recent breakup.
As soon as the Manhattans arrives, he drinks half the cocktail in one gulp.
“I came to be around a friend, because I don’t think working holed up in a room somewhere without any breaks is particularly healthy, even for me. ”
I take a few sips of my drink. It’s strong, catches on my throat, and makes my words come out huskier. “You need a distraction until it feels better.”
“Drinks, dancing, and potentially finding another man’s burly thighs to bury my head between,” says Theo, surveying the surrounding crowd.
“Oh, I can help with that,” I say, adding myself to the reconnaissance efforts, my eyes going between thighs to find the burliest one. “How about that redhead over there?”
Theo pats my arm. “Good choice, but not yet. I’m feeling delicate.”
Luke snorts.
How rude. I lean over our circular table and attempt to poke his arm.
It takes a few tries, but when my finger makes contact, Luke looks down at it, and then up at me.
Well, not my face, technically. More my ample cleavage, which this forward motion has plumped up; my breasts are pillowy globes standing in attention.
“What?” hisses Luke.
“Is everything alright? Should I poke you again?” I ask.
“There is no need to assault me,” he grits out. “Especially when I meant to tune you two out.”
“Assault you? I was merely reminding you of how people pay attention to each other in polite society when they are out together. We might not be close, but Theo will have his already vulnerable feelings hurt further if you keep ignoring him like this. Why are you being dismissive—and— and — irregularly agitated ?”
“Poor workaholic needs drinks to socialize,” says Theo, gesturing over a waiter to order multiple shots. “Once he gets alcohol in him, he’ll loosen up.”
“I’m not drinking,” dismisses Luke, picking up his water instead. “I’ve got morning meetings I can’t miss.”
“Does your schedule ever have a proper break in it?” I wonder.
“The answer is no, sweet Rita,” says Theo. “But don’t you worry, we’ve got each other now.”
“We do.” I turn my body to face Theo more. “Tell me. How can I help you pick up? ”
“Actually…” Theo’s smile is sheepish. “I think you should pick up.”
“Me?”
“Don’t you see?” He clutches my hand and brings it to his chest. “I need inspiration. Please, show me how it’s done. Go out there and flirt.”
“He’s playing you,” warns Luke. “Don’t fall for it.”
“I’m not. Ignore him. And even if I was, I’ve got faith in our Rita. She can get anybody she wants in this room. Don’t you think?”
Luke doesn’t answer, and my hackles rise.
Does he not think I can flirt? That in this full bar, there is nobody who might be interested in me? How completely wrong, considering the looks I got when I first walked in. Somewhere out there is someone interested in me.
Finishing the last of my Manhattan, I stand up. I’ve got a strong urge to poke Luke again, but my hands curl into little fists instead.
There are many ways to proposition someone.
Entire books have been written on the subject.
There are the saucy pickup lines that either make the recipient laugh or cringe, depending on how attractive and non-creepy they perceive you to be.
Or there is the sticky staring when your eyes connect across the bar, glance away, and then peek to meet again.
Blunt honesty cuts down the guessing. A hello, I think you’re cute.
That takes gumption and tequila. You can also offer to buy a stranger tequila, but I’m already warm and inhibited—not looking to be unhinged. Shots will do me in.
Weaving slowly around people, I arrow to the bar and safely slot myself beside a tall, dark-haired man ordering beer.
“How is the night going?” I ask.
Startled, he turns his head. “Good.”
“Are you here alone?”
“No. Wife.” He puts his hand on the bar counter so we can both see the ring.
“Fun. Is it date night?”
“Attempts at one,” says the stranger, laughing. “We’re already yawning. How about you? Are you with your friends?”
I am not. Two sets of eyes are burning up my back.
“Actually, I’m here with my boss and his friend.”
“Huh. That’s unusual. Everything okay?”