Chapter 2
READ THE ROOM
BANKS
Do I always pretend to date random women in bars?
No, I don’t.
But the way that sleazeball crowded her, leered at her, and spoke to her when she clearly told him she wasn’t interested fired me the hell up. If anyone did anything like that to my little sister… My shoulders tighten with tension. I wouldn’t stand for it.
And while I didn’t hear everything he said, it didn’t take a body language expert to know she was telling him to get lost. Sure, I could have just physically shown the man the door—eight years as a Marine means I’m no slouch in the shifting unwanted types along department—but I don’t like to make a scene.
In fact, I’m excellent at not making scenes. Hence the offer to pretend to be her dude for the night.
But something I’m even better at than not making a mountain out of a molehill? Spotting opportunities.
I take the one this gorgeous woman with the long blond hair is offering me.
“Yes, you can,” I say, meeting her captivating crystal-blue gaze at last, now that I’m done sending death rays at that guy.
With him in the rearview, I pause, like we need a reset to move past that part of the night and into this part before I add, “On one condition.”
“What’s your condition?”
“That you let me buy it for you.”
A soft laugh falls from her glossy lips. Such a better expression than the tight, tense look on her face moments ago. Now her shoulders are relaxed, her eyes inviting. “Chivalry is not dead.”
“Not with me, that’s for damn sure.”
With a well then expression, she gestures to the stool next to her.
I take it, placing the tablet I’ve been holding on the bar top.
Time to set my business plans aside, along with the proposal I’ve been working on since my early evening meeting here in this hotel.
I’ll send this proposal to Dean tonight to review.
Get his feedback. Make sure it’s airtight and confident before I fire it off to a huge potential client.
A kernel of hope rushes through me. This gig could be huge for our recently launched firm.
But for now, a drink. I nod toward her empty glass. “Rosé?”
She lifts a brow. “You noticed what I was drinking?”
“I notice lots of things.” But I don’t want her to think I’m just as bad as that guy, like I’ve been stalking her in a whole new way, so I widen the aperture.
“Like, I noticed the women over there traded lipsticks before they shot selfies while drinking cosmos, and the guy who hit on you removed his wedding band.”
My companion’s lips part. “He did? I noticed a tan line, but not that he’d taken it off.”
“About fifteen seconds before he moved next to you. And the bartender didn’t come over because he was working on a big order for a dozen blueberry margaritas.”
“Are you an anthropologist studying bar behavior? A secret shopper who observes hotel lobbies? Or a superhero who saves the day when a gal needs a temporary boyfriend to ward off creepers?”
I laugh. “The latter sounds like a good gig. But no, I’m just observant.” I offer my hand. “Banks. I’m in town for the night from Los Angeles.”
For a brief second, she appears taken aback when I say Los Angeles, but then clears her expression and says, “Ripley.” Like it’s important to her to say her name. “Like Ripley’s Believe It or Not!”
“Or Ripley from Alien,” I add.
“Or The Talented Mr. Ripley. I’m in the city from—” She must think the better of supplying that detail because, with barely a pause, she finishes, “A little town by the coast.” She holds my hand for a beat longer than most do, and I definitely don’t mind the extended shake or the way she holds back where she’s from.
That’s just smart for a woman these days.
She lets go of my hand as the bartender comes our way.
I raise a finger to get his attention, and he stops in front of us.
“Sorry for the wait. Had a big order.” His smile is apologetic. “Thanks for your patience. What can I get you?”
Ripley shoots me a look that says she’s impressed. I like it—the cute smirk, the twinkle in her irises. “No worries, Duke,” I tell the bartender, reading his name tag. “A rosé for the lady.”
“Actually, a whiskey sour for me,” she says, keeping me on my toes.
“I stand corrected,” I say.
Then, she continues to keep me on my toes, tilting her head toward my glass. “And what was it you were drinking? Bourbon?”
I let out a low, appreciative whistle as I reach for the credit card in my pocket and slap it down. “Yes, I was. But I’ll have the same as my…girlfriend.”
She rolls her lips, sealing up some satisfied laughter.
“Two whiskey sours coming right up,” Duke says.
When he leaves, I turn to Ripley. “And so are you—observant, that is.”
She shakes her head, dismissing the compliment. “I was actually admiring your butterfly when I noticed the drink. I’m more of a gambler. I took a guess it was bourbon.”
“Gut instinct,” I say with an approving nod. My job, my whole business, is fueled by gut instinct. “That’s a good thing.”
She gives me a grateful smile. “Seriously though. I appreciate what you did.”
“It’s no problem,” I reply.
“And guys wonder why we think dating is rough. But I’m glad you decided to fake date me tonight.” She pauses a moment, teasing me with a smile. “And I’m extra glad you decided to be my boyfriend, not just someone meeting me for a first date.”
“You don’t like first dates?” I ask. But who does?
She gives a faux shudder. “First dates are horrible. It’s like a review of your dating CV. All that talk about what you do for a living, where you see yourself in a few years, how many pet goldfish you have, and so on.”
“I don’t have any pet goldfish,” I say dryly.
“Good.” She crosses her legs. I try not to check her out too blatantly but damn, she’s not only beautiful—those eyes are impossibly captivating—she’s also seriously fucking hot in jeans and a cropped white hoodie that slopes down her shoulder, revealing more of her neckline.
I want to roam my eyes up and down her long legs and her athletic frame, enjoying the view, but staring would make me no better than that guy I nearly tossed in the trash.
“I don’t think you can find out if someone’s right for you by asking those staid, boring questions,” she goes on.
“How do you find out then?”
She gives a hopeful shrug. “By asking if they blast music while they drive, or if they’ve ever bungee jumped, or what was the last thing they googled.”
The bartender returns with our drinks. We thank him, and then she lifts a glass to toast. “To noticing things,” she says. “And to very smooth saves. The phone call and the table? That was well played, Banks.”
As she sips, her gaze strays around the bar to some of the booths in the corner, a little more private. I like to think I can read the room. Read a woman too. “Want that table?”
She pauses, but not like she’s reluctant. More like she’s weighing my offer, writing a pros and cons list in her head. I’d love to know what’s in each column, but mostly I want her yes.
It comes seconds later as she says, “You know what? I do.”
Yep, that business proposal can wait a little longer.
I take our drinks, tucking my tablet under my arm and grabbing my paper butterfly from where I left it when I got up.
As we weave through the tables, I stay very, very close to her.
Just in case. But I give myself a long enough leash to drink in the view of her as we go.
The fall of her shiny blond hair over her shoulders, the sway of her hips, the slap of her flip-flops against the concrete floor.
She holds a small clutch purse. A sliver of a farmer’s tan peeks out by the strap of the cami under that hoodie, while a few freckles dot her nose.
She’s right that dates shouldn’t be about CVs, but I’m still curious who she is.
She doesn’t have the polished reserve of a banker or a lawyer.
She’s not a city girl, either, by her own admission.
Bet she runs a store, maybe a café, possibly a bar.
When we reach the booth, she meets my eyes straight on. “You’re a very good boyfriend tonight.”
Tonight.
A reminder that what we do doesn’t matter. This is a one-night-only kind of thing, and that’s fine by me. “I blast music in my car,” I tell her. “So loud it shakes.”
Her smile spreads deliciously. Playfully. “And does everyone know you’re coming from the Mozart sonata?”
That image is too much. And scarily almost accurate. “You know, Ripley? I bet they can.” Then I slide a little closer because, yes, I can read the room, and I fucking like what it says.
An hour later, we switch to water—her idea, since she says she has a two-drink limit.
“So, yes, I did, in fact, bungee jump for the first time when I was twenty-five.” She sets down her water with a defiant clink.
“It was my friend Chloe’s idea. Since then, I’ve gone surfing, white-water rafting, and also, Black Friday shopping at six a.m.”
“Don’t tell me it was a Walmart.”
“It was,” she says, sitting straighter, then holding up her hands in defense. “Look, they were having a fantastic sale on mulch. I couldn’t pass it up.”
My brow creases. “Mulch? Was that a holiday gift for someone?” I don’t bother to hide how much I don’t want mulch as a gift.
“No, but it’s the way to my heart,” she says.
I note that detail—she’s an outdoorsy girl through and through.
Maybe a gardener. “I bought it for myself. Besides, it was half off. I love deals,” Ripley confesses.
“But now that you know my answers,” she begins, and yup, I’ve learned that rather than a goldfish, she has a summa dog—some of this, some of that—named Hudson and she likes music she can sing along to.
She’s also direct, confident, and a little tough, in a good way.
She gives me a fierce look and says, “I want to know something about you that’s not on the list.”
If she asks, after all, what I do for a living, I’m not sure I’ll tell her. It opens up too many questions. But I do like her tenaciousness, and I’m a little taken with her already, so I gamble. “Sure. Try me.”
“What’s with the origami?” She looks down at the butterfly I was making earlier.
Ah, that’s easier to answer. “Oh, this thing?”
She rolls her eyes. “Oh, this? Why yes, that was just a little play I wrote one afternoon. Had no idea anyone would be into that dude named Romeo and his lady Juliet. Just that thing.”
I smile, smugly. “You think my origami is Shakespeare-level? Why, thank you.”
“It’s…well, an unusual hobby for…” She looks me up and down, perhaps not wanting to say a guy because it would sound sexist.
And I think I’ll have a little fun with her. “For a temporary boyfriend?” I ask, like I’m a little confused.
“You know what I mean.”
“For a whiskey sour drinker?”
“C’mon, Banks!”
“For a Mozart aficionado?”
“For a guy,” she says with a huff.
“Ah, that.” I lift my glass of water and take a sip. She watches me with avid eyes, and the flicker of heat in her irises does not go unnoticed.
Or unwanted.
“My little sister taught me,” I say. I don’t tell her that I find it calming, that I need to keep my hands busy, that if I don’t, my mind veers in frustrating directions.
“What else can you make?”
I gaze at her face, then down her neck to the collarbone where her hoodie has slipped, exposing some of her right shoulder and skin that looks soft, tender, and thoroughly kissable. A sparrow peeks out from the fabric, spreading its wings.
I meet her eyes. A charge zaps between us. “Something pretty,” I say, without looking away from her.
Her smile is just south of shy, and I want to kiss it off.
Instead, I open my tablet case and take out a crisp sheet of white paper.
I fold it in half on the diagonal, then unfold it at the crease.
Quickly but methodically, I flip the paper over, up, down, until a minute later, I present her with a bird.
She takes it, clutches it gently. “I love it. And I needed this tonight.” It’s said like a confession, and I don’t think she’s talking about the paper bird. “I just got some wild news.”
I straighten my spine, dropping the flirty tone like that. “Everything okay?” Translation: Who do I need to hurt?
“Yes. It’s all good. I didn’t mean to alarm you. It’s a huge project. So it’s good, but overwhelming, like how can I possibly get everything done in that amount of time overwhelming. It’s a lot of pressure, even though it’s good pressure.”
“I hear you. But I bet you’ll get it done early.”
She laughs. “You have a lot of faith in me.”
“You’re tough. You’re strong. You know how to get things done.”
“You can tell all that in one hour of meeting me?”
No doubt about it. “I sure can. You’re the kind of person who doesn’t back down from a challenge.”
Her smile magnifies. “And are you the same?”
“I am. So I get what you’re saying, because I know that feeling too. That how the hell will I get this done feeling, but then you do it. I’m waiting to find out if my firm just got a new gig.”
She pauses, seeming to absorb that little nugget. “Sounds like you have a lot of tension,” she muses, her eyes sparking with possibilities of the after-dark variety.
And I like it. A lot. “Sounds like we both do,” I say, as she takes her time and sets a hand on my leg, and damn, that feels good. It also feels like a new direction for the night. “What are we going to do with all this tension then?”
She glances toward the lobby, then the hallway beyond, and maybe, just maybe, to the elevators and where they lead. A hotel room.
The way things started with us tonight, I don’t want to push her. But I do want to kick open the door. “Ripley,” I say, my husky tone making my meaning clear—say the word, and we’re out of here.
“Banks…” She draws a deep breath, holds it, then fuck it flashes in her eyes. “Should we take this to my room?”
A bolt of lust slams into me. “Yes.” But just because it’s a good idea to check, I add, “If you’re sure you want that?”
Her teeth slide over her bottom lip, then she whispers, “Well, it is our third date, after all.”
I take that opportunity and run with it. “We’ve probably had our first kiss already.”
She smiles, seductive and inviting. “Did we? I can’t recall.”
I lift a hand and slide my fingers through her hair, savoring the way she trembles as I touch her. “Sweetheart, when I kiss you, you will definitely recall it.”
She lifts her chin. “Why don’t you refresh my memory?”