Chapter 8
MAYBE I LIKE PLAYING WITH MY FOOD TOO
But I have to set aside the quest for the identity of the party crasher. I’ve got an event to host and guests to mingle with.
I have introductions to lubricate.
That’s what I do for the next hour, though I don’t let my gaze stray long from the woman in black.
Not as I talk to Priya and Sam, or Pieter and Lena, and now Mateo and Allison. Not as I lean against a mantel and share a self-deprecating tale with them in the corner of the living room.
“And that’s why it’s always a good idea to carry a Leatherman. You never know when you might need to MacGyver your way out of a situation,” I say, clapping Mateo on the shoulder, his cue that it’s time for him to take over the conversation.
“Yes, never leave home without it,” he says to the lovely Allison, who laughs and lifts her champagne glass.
“Words to live by,” she declares, and I slip away from the pair now that I’ve greased the wheel.
As I weave through the crowd, my eyes hunt once again, quickly acquiring the target. She’s at the bar, almost like she’s waiting for me.
How about that?
I thread a path through the room, headed for where the party crasher perches on a bar stool, tall and elegant. She’s mouthing something as she taps her foot on the floor—maybe she’s rehearsing what to say.
“You’re Hazel’s friend, aren’t you? If you’re practicing meeting someone, I can make it easier for you,” I offer in my warmest host voice.
She turns to me, and I’m almost certain she’s my Daisy.
But why would my Daisy show up at my party? Does she regret walking out the door at Spencer’s bar? Is she here for me? Or is she looking to meet some other man? Better not be the latter. Not if she’s who I think she is. I need to know for sure.
“Yes,” she says. “There’s someone in particular I was hoping to speak to.” Her voice is slightly different. Less purr . . . more personable.
“I know everyone here,” I say, studying the cut of her jaw, the angles of her face. Do they line up with the image in my memory?
I’m almost positive that they do.
She lifts her chin, her eyes full of challenge. “Do you, now?”
“Yes. Except for a certain party crasher.” I motion to the bartender, raising two fingers.
The mustached man who holds the keys to the liquor slides over. “What can I get for you, Mister Ford?”
I meet the woman’s gaze. Those brown eyes take me back to two weeks ago. They were all I had to go on that night.
Her eyes and her lips.
I gaze up, down, up, down, returning again and again to those lips.
Pretty sure I’d recognize them anywhere.
Yeah, she’s my Daisy. Now, why’s she here?
Since she busted me with my favorite drink before, I turn to Cal and change it up. “A martini please, Cal. Dry.” Then I gesture to the beauty. “And for you?”
She swallows instead of answering right away, and I can’t resist. “Perhaps a Macallan?” I suggest.
Her face is stony; she doesn’t break. “Prosecco would be great,” she says.
So that’s how we’re doing it. Fine by me. “And is that your favorite drink?” I ask.
“I don’t have favorites.”
“Surely, you must. A woman who has strong opinions must have favorites.”
“Not when it comes to drinks, at least.” She tucks a strand of that wavy hair behind one ear. She hardly wears any jewelry. No earrings either. There’s a simplicity to her style that’s intriguing but also hard to read. “I like to keep an open mind,” she adds.
Humming, I drum my fingers on the bar. “As I like to say, an open mind is a terrible thing to waste.”
“And so are opportunities.” She lifts a brow like she’s waiting for me to bat next.
I will, honey. I absolutely will. “Speaking of . . . opportunities. You really must have fantastic night vision,” I say, my way of reminding her that she watched my bet with the guys go down the night I met her. “Perhaps next time you’ll have to consider a different costume. Maybe, a cat?”
She taps her temple. “Your suggestion has been noted.”
I study her, stretching out the wait for my reply. “I could see you in a leather number. Something slinky.”
“With a tail?”
“A tail always completes the look,” I say as the bartender brings over my martini and her Prosecco.
“Here you go, Mister Ford and . . .”
“Bellamy,” she supplies. “Bellamy Hart.”
I lift my glass. She does the same. We’re both waiting for a toast. I take the reins, keeping my gaze locked on hers. “To . . . chance encounters, Bellamy.”
With the glass midair, she seems to consider that, then simply nods. “Serendipity, some might call it,” she says, then drinks.
And those lips on that glass.
This woman.
For the second time in as many encounters, she’s surprised me. I didn’t expect her to walk away the other night. And I definitely didn’t expect her to walk back into my life this evening.
What is her deal? And how long will it be until she breaks and admits she’s hot for me?
No idea.
But I was wrong about her the last time we met.
I kind of can’t wait to find out how I’m going to be wrong about Bellamy tonight.