“That doesn’t sound very fun,” I said, realizing his rumpled appearance made sense now. I could no longer blame it on a tumble between the sheets.
Mick shrugged. “Part of the territory.”
“And that is?” I couldn’t help but be interested. A writer at heart, I could never get enough information.
“This is the part I hate saying,” he said, “but I buy broken companies and fix them, keep them, or sell them. I know, I know ... it sounds like I made it up or heard about it in the movies. But that’s what I do. Anyway, today was awful.” He took a long slug of his drink, finishing it while the ice clinked against the sides of the glass.
Bella noticed it was empty and brought another without being asked.
I couldn’t help let out a small giggle. “Definitely doesn’t sound fake. Maybe a littlePretty Woman, but not fake.”
“That damn movie. Pretty sure everyone thinks about it when it comes to me and what I do for a living.”
“Oh yeah, everyone?” I crossed my skinny-jean-covered legs and eyed up this stranger, wanting to be different from his movie counterpart. I wanted to be a confident, self-assured, independent woman.
“Yep, everyone.”
His gaze landed on me, and I’m not going to lie, I softened. Mentally, I took back the bad assumptions I’d made about this guy, reconciling myself with being able to enjoy some small talk and bar chatter.
“One sec.” He held up a finger and tapped away at his phone, which had been lighting up furiously on the bar. Setting it facedown, he said, “Now, tell me about you, Margo.”
Phones forgotten, I told him as much as I felt comfortable. I quickly deduced that was my prerogative as a woman. “Writer. I’m a writer.”
He nodded, waiting for more.
“Adweek, some fluff filler for them, and at other times I write pieces that intersect on lifestyle and business.”
Pretty sure I’d just told Mick more about my work than I’d told anyone in a decade. I didn’t have many close friends or confidants. Isolation was my cloak, giving me a chance at survival.
“Got it. Wrangler of words.”
The smile spreading across my face couldn’t be helped. It was true—I loved words.
After finishing my wine, I checked the time again on my phone. Of course, Mick asked me if I wanted another wine, and I declined. Two was more than my limit.
“Early morning exercise class,” I lied to him.
Opting not to have another drink either, he paid the bill. Giving me a hopeful glance as he slid his wallet back in his pocket, he said, “I live close by, but I don’t think that’s what you’re into.”
“I wish I could say it was, but I have to pick up my daughter.” I let him off easy, not wanting to mention my marriage, or the shell of one.
Standing, I followed him out of the bar. He held the door open for me, and I stepped out first.
Turning to say good-bye, I said, “Thanks, this was fun.” It felt a bit like something a young girl would say, but I had never quite felt that way in all my life. Or at least, in a very long time.
“It was,” he said and leaned in to give me a quick kiss on the cheek.
I let him, and why not? Okay, there were a million reasons why I shouldn’t—or at least two, as in Tommy and Priscilla. But in that moment, none of them mattered compared to the ego boost I was getting. It was unprecedented and exhilarating.
He stepped back, and as I was turning to go, grabbed my wrist and said, “Here.”
I yelped, “Ouch,” and glanced down to see he was holding a card in his other hand.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.” His face was stricken with worry. This was a man who toppled businesses with a metaphorical wrecking ball, but would never hurt a human being.
“It’s nothing. Injury from exercise,” I said quickly when he frowned at the fingerprint bruising around my slight wrist.
His grip gentled, still lingering around the cuff of my shirt, which had now risen up my arm, but he didn’t say a word. Concerned, he looked into my eyes, and for the first time in my life, I felt not only seen, but seenthrough. It was an unfamiliar yet strangely welcome feeling.
