Assuming I remembered the difference between hot and attractive.
* * *
I got to Bottle Evolution at the same time that Michael did, a fact that was not lost on him.
“You’re good with timing, huh?” he said.
“I’m good with doing what I say I’m going to do,” I said. “I told you I was headed there, and here I am. I’m not one of those girls who’s going to play games and say I’ll meet you somewhere and then make you wait half an hour.”
“Well, I appreciate that.”
“Don’t let it go to your head,” I warned. “You’re nice and handsome, but you’re also part of a biker gang.”
“Club.”
“And I’m a doctor but get paid as a nurse,” I said, rolling my eyes.
“I mean, I’ve always had a thing for nurses, but…”
Michael cut himself off, cleared his throat, and apologized.
“That was a bad joke. You didn’t deserve that.”
It was. But it also lodged in my head for some reason.
I had probably been a little too mean right there. I didn’t mind talking shit to guys who deserved it, but Michael had treated me well so far. If he wanted his group to be called a club, well, Michael might have deserved it.
No one else, though.
And the Black Reapers were still a gang, as far as I was concerned. I would just hold my tongue around this guy.
When we got inside, I went immediately for my apple-flavored cider. Michael spent a few minutes looking around, so I told him I would wait for him at a table out back. I quickly paid for my cider before Michael got any ideas, went to the rear, cracked open the bottle at a wooden, long table, and took a sip.
How did I agree to this again? Because I had sympathy for Michael being a nice guy? Now I’m wondering if he and LeCharles planned that on purpose. A whole good cop/bad cop sort of routine.
Just remember to end it all here, and you’ll prevent them from ever talking to you again.
I hope.
I told myself to stop the harsh internal monologue. Being aggressive and firm in what I stood for was fine; choosing to believe nutty, improbable theories because it bolstered my position was walking down a line I didn’t want to find myself in.
Michael came out a few moments later and sat across from me, a smile on his face. Now that I saw him fully before me, no motorcycle equipment on, with his full attention on me, I realized that, well, he was really handsome.
I wasn’t about to admit that out loud, of course. And that didn’t mean anything about how I felt. To me, it was like being in a rich person’s home and seeing a nice painting—I could admire the aesthetics of it, but that didn’t mean I was going to demand to buy the painting.
Remember. Hot? Or attractive?
“Quite the nice night, huh?”
The personality, though, was going to be a little bit tougher to ignore.
“It is,” I said in agreement. “Most of my nights, I just go home and relax.”
“As do I,” he said.
“Really?” I said suspiciously. “I thought bikers got most of their ‘work’ done at night.”
Michael just shrugged casually as he sipped on his porterhouse beer.
