Chapter 1 #2
I glanced around the bar, really noticing it for the first time.
We’d been sitting there for over an hour but beyond the copper-clad tabletops, I hadn’t paid any attention to my surroundings.
Dark wood paneling covered one wall and stone another.
With the wine-colored carpet, it could have felt stuffy and dark.
Kind of a dated gentleman’s club. Instead, it felt rich.
Luxurious. Almost a study in materials and sensory details.
The contemporary lines of the blown glass light fixtures and the slight patina on the tables made the whole place feel current without slipping to trendy.
Elena would do a better job describing it. I just knew I wasn’t quite ready to leave. Another drink while I actually paid attention to my surroundings felt like the perfect next step.
“You know, I think I’m going to stay a bit longer.”
Alex’s eyes flashed with an almost predatory look. “Do you want company?”
Meredith and Kindra were clearly worn out.
Meredith went to work at the ass crack of dawn most days.
Late nights weren’t her thing. Kindra gave so much to her clients.
I knew she valued every moment she got to decompress.
And the last thing I needed was Alex pushing me about the date with Erik’s friend that wasn’t going to happen.
Elena would jump in just to up the pressure, and I’d be doomed.
“No, you guys go on. I’ll take the tab,” I said, handing the server my credit card despite my friends’ protests. “Could you move it to the bar, please?”
I could sit at the gorgeous wooden bar I was just now noticing, have one more cocktail and maybe expand my potential itch scratchers.
Alex’s words about a “real live man” were still working their way around in the back of my head.
I wasn’t sure if I wanted someone to smack my ass or not, and I was sure vibrators were a safer bet for orgasms and my heart.
But there were some undeniably appealing things about actual men.
The warmth of a strong hand on the small of my back bleeding through the silk of my blouse to my skin.
The anticipation of that moment right before firm lips brushed mine, breathing in a new scent.
Tasting. Touching. A hand fisted in my hair.
Fuck.
If only there was a way to get all of that without the emotional minefield of a relationship.
It was a strong argument for legalized prostitution.
I hired out almost everything else, so why not sex?
An even exchange of all those delicious masculine things for money, orgasms all around, and when the climax fades, we both move on, happy with the deal.
Next time I saw her, I’d talk to Alex about that. With her work on power exchanges in relationships, she was bound to have thoughts. And if I convinced her that’s what I really wanted, she might give the blind date thing a rest.
I made my way past two couples, sitting at high-top tables near the bar.
I’d bet money the couple on the left was on a first date.
Too much nervous laughter and eager expressions for it to be anything else.
The other couple were too busy with their phones to notice each other.
I couldn’t have picked a better visual representation for the stages of love if I’d planned it.
The expectant you are the one who could be my world beginning to the why do we even bother aftermath.
It lent credibility to my clear expectations/even exchange theory.
Or maybe plan, not theory, if I worked it right.
Setting my clutch on the scarred wooden top, I slid onto an empty stool at the bar.
I had a conflicted relationship with stools.
I was short. You could call it petite, diminutive, or a dozen other words for short, but the reality was sitting on a stool made me feel a little like a child.
The trade-off was that my stature made it easy for people to underestimate me, something I put to good use every chance I got.
Hooking my ankles to resist the temptation to swing my legs, I looked up and into dark eyes so intense I felt the breath catch in my throat.
“Evening, cher.” He pronounced it sha with the yat accent of someone whose family had lived in the city for generations.
Something about the way he said the casual endearment made my heartbeat pick up a notch, and I couldn’t decide if I was interested or annoyed.
I paused for a second, considering, and waited for the obligatory “what can I get you,” which never came.
Instead, he watched me for a second, holding my gaze until I actually had to fight to keep from squirming in my seat. What the fuck?
“Bombay Sapphire, dirty with extra olives,” I ordered, sliding a little ice into my voice. I did not squirm, and I wasn’t about to start, especially not because some bartender stared at me.
He cocked an eyebrow and handed me a folio without saying a word. The cover was worn soft like a well-used messenger bag. Without thinking, I ran my fingers over it, enjoying the feel of the slightly warm leather.
I’d ordered a martini, and he gave me the cocktail menu.
What the actual fuck? Because I’m a woman, I couldn’t possibly know what I wanted without shopping first?
Misogynistic asshole. I should ask for his manager or better yet, just get up and leave.
Staying had been an impulse decision—an impulse I didn’t have to continue to indulge.
Except the only thing waiting at home for me was an empty apartment with no gin.
I didn’t have a cat or even a plant, a fact that didn’t normally bother me but in light of all the wedding planning, it didn’t sit quite right tonight.
I was confident it would after a martini or two, or maybe even some company.
I glanced around the mostly empty bar and decided the drink was my best plan, so I’d humor the asshole—for the time being.
The thick white cardstock seemed more like a wedding invitation than a drink menu.
The rag content of the paper would do a society matron proud, but instead of feeling stuffy or over the top, it managed to feel contemporary and rich.
And that was before I read the descriptions of the cocktails.
There were enough herbal-infused simple syrups to make a dedicated hipster happy, but there were also interesting combinations.
Things I wouldn’t have considered, like dark chocolate kisses and bourbon, and smoked rosemary gin with grapefruit.
The bartender stood by quietly waiting, but I could feel him watching me. Seriously, what the ever-loving fuck? Attentive was a good thing in the service industry, but this guy took it to a new, just this side of creepy, level.
“What are artichoke bitters?” I didn’t bother to hide the derision in my voice. Of all the unnecessarily pretentious things. Who needed bitters made from an overgrown thistle? Except there was that gin juniper berry thing, so maybe it wasn’t as crazy as it sounded.
“We make them in house, starting with the artichoke and vodka and adding in orange peel, allspice, cardamom, and a few other spices.” He said it as if he were explaining something he cared about, not reciting a speech he’d given dozens of times before.
The latter was probably true, but his tone made me lean in a little.
Well, that didn’t sound terrible. It actually sounded kind of delicious. I scrolled through the rest of the ingredients in the cocktail. If I ordered it instead of my original choice, did that mean he’d been right about me knowing what I wanted? Did I care?
“What’s your pleasure?” He dropped the R on the word pleasure, the warm, deep timbre of his voice an interesting combination of the barest Southern drawl and something more. “Still want the Bombay or has something else caught your eye?”
I couldn’t help but think he was talking about something other than my drink order.
He was handsome—neatly trimmed dark beard covering a square jaw, with eyes somewhere between hazel and brown.
He wore a crisp white dress shirt cuffed to his forearms and black slacks sitting low on narrow hips.
The cut seemed too good for even a well-paid bartender.
Either tips were exceptional, or he was a bit of a clotheshorse. That was something I could respect.
The double entendre masquerading as a helpful comment was what bothered me. Or, rather, my reaction to it. The man was charming, and I’d rather he wasn’t. None of which made sense. Which added to my irritation. I’d gotten myself caught in some kind of handsome bartender loop with no clear escape.
––––––––
I WATCHED THE THOUGHTS PLAY across the woman’s gorgeous face. It was better than any movie reel I’d ever seen. Although I doubted anyone not studying her closely would even notice.
“Or perhaps you’d rather I make a suggestion?” I said when she continued to hesitate.
I didn’t want to make a suggestion. I wanted to tell her what she needed and then help her get it, but I had a feeling if I went that far, she’d bolt.
That would be a real shame. I could see her wrestling with something.
I imagined she only showed people exactly what she wanted them to see, but there was a hesitancy in the way her finger hovered over the drink menu.
I wouldn’t have noticed if I hadn’t been paying attention.
Who was I kidding? I noticed everything about the lovely creature sitting in front of me.
I hadn’t been able to take my eyes off her since she walked into my bar with her dark-haired friend, the one who looked intent on trying to convince the wound-tight woman to do something she didn’t want to do.
I had exactly the opposite goal. I wanted to convince her to do a half a dozen things I knew she’d fucking love.
“Trust me?” I asked, clearly getting ahead of myself. But if I got her to say yes to one pleasure, maybe we could move on to others.