Chapter 8 Scarlett
SCARLETT
I had to launch myself off my barstool to chase her down as she closed the distance between her and Jace, my heels clicking against the hardwood floor in rapid succession.
The warm glow of bulbs cast dramatic shadows across the exposed brick walls, making everything feel more intense than it already was. But I was too late.
Dakota leaned her back against the bar next to him like she’d known him a thousand years, the epitome of casual confidence I’d always envied.
“Hi. I’m Dakota.”
Jace’s eyes—they’d been different with me. Warm, curious, like liquid amber in the bar’s dim lighting. But with Dakota, they were guarded. Understandably so. She wasn’t what I’d call good with boundaries. It was another of the things I adored about her, but right now?
Right now, I hated it.
“Dakota!” I scolded.
Jace’s eyes swept to me, and as they locked on mine for, like, ten heart-stopping beats, they softened, his mouth relaxing from its firm-ass line to a ghost of a smile.
The kind of smile that made the crystal glasses behind the bar seem dull in comparison.
I hated that his almost smile had this effect on me.
That it made me feel special—because in my opinion, Dakota was far more gorgeous than I was.
The girl always got all the looks when we were out together.
And of more importance, his smoldering intensity had this magnetism that drew me to him like a current I couldn’t stop.
I wondered who he was or if he realized that every single woman in this bar—and I mean, every freaking one—was still staring at him with pure longing and desire.
The rock music floating through the speakers couldn’t mask the collective sighs of them hoping Dakota and I would “bomb” and they’d get their chance with him.
“This is my friend Scarlett, whom I think you met,” Dakota continued while Jace continued staring so intensely, I wasn’t even sure he was listening to her. His focus was a tangible thing, like a spotlight. “She’s had a terrible day and needs some cheering up.”
Her ridiculously embarrassing words were the only thing that had the power to snap my focus away from Jace.
“Dakota, so help me.”
“You look familiar,” Jace said to her, a deep crease appearing between his brows. His eyes narrowed as he studied her face, and he tilted his head, like someone trying to place a half-forgotten nightmare. “I never forget a face. Where do I know you from?”
God, even the crease was sexy. I wanted to lick it.
She didn’t take the time to explain her familiarity was probably because she was a huge influencer on social media and that she got recognized from time to time. I mean, I was assuming that’s why he recognized her.
Because what else could it be?
Instead of addressing his question, she wiggled her eyebrows at him and said, “You look like a big boy, capable of lots of cheering.”
Dear God, please open the ground beneath me and just … let me free-fall to the core of the earth.
“Enough.” I literally yanked her by the arm away from the damn bar.
She half smirked, half looked annoyed that I’d cut her off short.
“I’m sorry about my friend. She was born without social skills.”
I dragged Dakota back to our barstools.
“I’m going to suffocate you,” I whisper-yelled. I loved her, I did, but, “We aren’t in middle school. I don’t need you sneaking notes to a guy I like!”
“So, you do like him.” She arched a knowing brow at me.
My attraction (okay, fine, G-force pull) to him wasn’t the point. The point was, “That was embarrassing as hell. Honestly, it’s a good thing I’m not interested in dating anyone right now because if I was, you’d have just ruined it with the first guy in an eternity I’d actually want to!”
Damn her for that knowing look.
“He probably wasn’t even listening to what I was saying,” Dakota claimed. “He was too busy staring at you with let’s get it on music playing in his head.” My former best work friend glanced over her shoulder before returning her face to me, smirking victoriously. “He won’t stop looking at you.”
“Yeah, that’s what happens when you make a scene. We’ve become the car accident in the bar.”
“Puh-lease. He’s eye-fucking you from across the room.”
Desire heated in my lower belly at the mere thought. Great. Even my freaking hormones are betraying me now. I clenched my fists at my sides, willing my body to heel.
“Where are you going?” I balked with eyes so wide, my forehead ate my eyelids as she tossed her purse string over her shoulder.
“I want details Monday.”
Oh, hell no. “If you’re leaving, I’m leaving.”
“I have an appointment,” she claimed. “Forgot to mention it.”
“You drove me to work this morning. You said nothing about an appointment, and it’s Friday night.”
“Like I said, slipped my mind.”
“Don’t you dare leave me.”
“He’s waiting to talk to you,” she pointed out.
“He could be a serial killer.”
“That can be one of your opening questions,” she suggested. When I cocked my head in my not-amused tilt, she countered with, “Statistically, he’s more likely to be a guy that’s good in bed.”
“This so isn’t like you,” I countered.
“You need cheering up. He looks like a body full of cheer.” Another wiggle of her eyebrows. “I want details Monday. Byyyyeee.”
“Dakota!”
Goddammit. She was out the door before I could stop her, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
I knew she was trying to “help” in her own way, but she knew me better than this.
She knew I didn’t have casual sex, even though I wasn’t morally opposed to it, and she should know that flirting or having sex with some stranger was the last thing I’d do to make myself feel better.
It angered me that she left me here, having to find my own ride. If she couldn’t drive me today, fine, but now I had to rely on a rideshare, which, in downtown Chicago on a Friday night, usually came with a freaking seven-year wait.
Punching in the order—and firing off a get your ass back here text to Dakota that I knew she’d never answer—I plopped down on the barstool in defeat.
“This is from the gentleman at the end of the bar.” The bartender appeared, motioning to Jace.
In addition to a fresh drink I’d be having (mental note: Jace took the time to order the drink I wanted, not just a drink. Girlies, allow swooning to commence), the bartender set down a napkin with neat penmanship on it that read:
You look like you don’t want company, thus the note versus an in-person invasion. But I have one question: What made your day so terrible?
I didn’t look to my left, but I could feel Jace there, his presence as tangible as the air in a gathering storm. For the life of me, I couldn’t fathom why he was this intrigued.
It must be the Revenge List. I guess it’s not every day you meet a woman who’s written a fantasy of felonies and misdemeanors on a napkin.
“Can I have a pen and a napkin, please?” I asked the bartender.
To his credit, the guy, who sported tattoos all over his hands, smiled like he thought this was adorable (it wasn’t; it was just a method of communicating with someone who didn’t deserve to be ghosted) and handed me a stack of napkins.
A stack.
Didn’t need it; this was a one-napkin text exchange.
Me: Thank you for the drink. Sorry my friend invaded your night.
I handed it to the bartender, who acted like my little mail pigeon and delivered it, back a minute later with another napkin.
Jace: The invasion was welcome. You still haven’t answered me. Why was your day so bad?
I took a sip of my drink, looking at his penmanship. Jeez, even the guy’s handwriting was sexy, a delicate blend of curved letters and easy-to-read font. The guy could moonlight as a calligrapher.
The appropriate thing to do, if I was serious about being left alone, would be to end all communications right now. No more napkin exchanges.
I pushed the note aside and stared defiantly in front of me, but of course, my damn eyes wandered.
They claimed it was just curiosity, but it took eight milliseconds to find his gaze locked directly on mine.
Heat exploded in my cheeks, and my eyes were unable to break from his, like they’d been locked with a dead bolt while the rest of the bar—muted conversations and cackles of laughter, clanking of glasses, and the smell of beer—faded around us.
In that instant, I wanted to throw caution to the wind and join him.
But my stress relief was more of the go home and organize my closet variety. Besides, Prince Charming himself couldn’t kiss the disaster spell of my life away, so I shot back one final conversation-ending message.
Me: I’m not in the mood to talk. I’m sorry. P.S. Everyone has bad days.
Another returned. This time, the bartender wasn’t smiling though. Not that I could blame him. We were being high maintenance and a little selfish, making him pass notes.
Jace: But I’m interested in yours.
I stole a quick glance at Jace. He was leaning on his elbow, seemingly casual, but his eyes were fixed on me.
Me: Don’t be. It’s not interesting, I assure you.
As I passed this note, I bit my lower lip when another returned, surprised the prospect of opening up didn’t come with irritation. But rather … was that intrigue? Especially because I’d seen Jace slip the bartender a cash incentive to keep this up.
Jace: I presume this has to do with the guy whose balls you want to shove an ice pick into?
The bartender retrieved my next message.
Me: My friend helped with the FICTIONAL revenge ideas. I’m more of the glitter bomb fantasy kind of girl.
Jace: Glitter is brilliant; the guy would find it in nooks and crannies for years. The herpes of craft supplies, if you will.
When a laugh escaped before I could catch it, Jace’s lips quirked up, clearly pleased with himself for breaking through my armor.
Sipping my drink, glancing at the time on my phone approximately every twenty seconds, I resisted the urge to look over at Jace.
Until another napkin appeared.
Jace: Hair remover mixed in shampoo.