The music is louder now, and the combination of the tequila and a lackluster hook-up are pooling into a headache. The hallway is mostly deserted, save for a couple making out in the corner and one man leaning up against the wall across from the bathroom.
“Of course,” his gruff voice complains as I pass.
Despite the conclusions people usually draw from my tattoos and what Kara calls my chronic and malignant resting bitch face, I am not a confrontational person. However, something about this asshole’s attitude after Ryan’s less than stellar performance hits the right button and I spin around to grab his arm before he’s all the way in the bathroom.
“You got a problem?”
He turns and I step back, choking on an honest to god gasp. It takes me too long to recover, and I’m not hiding it well. This man ishot.And not just Portland hot—objectively so. He’s tall, with broad shoulders and neatly cropped wavy hair. Even under the dim red lights I can tell his clothes are far too nice for BlueHeron to be one of his regular stomps; his slacks are tailored and the sleeves of his expensive looking button down are rolled around his corded forearms. The arousal I thought was lost after whatever his name rushes back and I swallow hard, mentally undressing this stranger. My conclusion comes faster than my recovery: he is definitely not the kind to suck on a fucking lollipop.
His cut jaw flexes as he runs his steely gaze from my face down to my skate shoes and then back up to meet my stare.
“It’s just not surprising,” he finally says. My anger spurts at his clear judgment but he continues before I can utter a single syllable. “I saw your . . . companion and wondered why he would shut the door so carefully behind him. But here you are, scurrying out with your tail tucked between your legs, and it’s making sense.”
My eyebrows shoot up at his tone and the tequila rears for another bite. Hot or not, no one gets to pull this kind of arrogant slut shaming. Not with me.
“What’s wrong? Haven’t ever seen a woman freshly fucked before?”
He doesn’t so much as flinch, his answer and light chuckle pulling another warm surge of arousal.
“Oh, I’ve seen plenty. And every single one of them looked more satisfied than you do. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
The bathroom door clicks shut, leaving me to stare at the layers of graffiti and process the beautiful man’s insult. Or, his cutting accuracy.
“Dick.”
Feeling childish for cursing at a closed door, I scoff and head for the bar, already digging in my bag for more cash. It’s time for another drink—and maybe something to eat. The Mexican food Spencer ordered for the office as a late lunch is too distant a memory. As if confirming the thought, my stomach rumbles as Islip in next to Kara’s barstool and, while the music is too loud for her to have heard it, she must be able to sense the hangry rolling off my shoulders because she pushes her basket of fries towards me.
“How was beanie baby?”
I make a face and shove a fry in before waving down the bartender. She nods, letting me know I’ll be next and my eyes sweep across the bar towards the bathroom. No sign of the hunky asshat. Shaking my head, I turn back to Kara.
“Men are fuckers.”
“Oh, Lottie,” she says, patting my arm. “Was your bathroom romp a dud? I could have told you that.”
I smirk and take another few fries. “If you can believe it, he wasn’t even the worst part. Some asshole prude made a comment as I was leaving. Seriously, who the fuck does that?”
My stomach churns, my whole body ill with a new realization. Hot, but judgy stranger aside, the distraction I was seeking with beanie boy didn’t work. My anxiety about tomorrow grows in tandem with my stomach ache. As is her habit, Kara reads my face.
“Still nervous?”
Shrugging, I bite into another nearly stale fry. “I suppose it will take more than a few cocktails and a hot piece of ass to forget my entire future will be decided tomorrow.”
This time it’s Kara who makes a face. “First of all, lollipop was, at best, a mediocre piece of ass, and second, it’s not yourentirefuture. You’re being dramatic.”
In an interruption that comes just before I can counter her argument, the bartender passes by. “Another house margarita?”
“Yes, on the Wilde tab and whatever she wants.”
Kara orders another whiskey sour, and the bartender gets to work. I fiddle with one of the fries, squishing the mushedpotato out of the browned exterior. Still dwelling on tomorrow’s stressors, I pull us back to the point.
“My entire future might be a little extreme, but flopping my presentation and losing out on the special project pay bump does mean Nan’s stays on the market for another quarter, and god knows Vince isn’t going to hold off on entertaining other offers much longer.” Releasing a rather dramatic, forlorn sigh, I finish destroying the french fry between my fingers. “I’m afraid the only thing I have left to convince him is little better than prostitution. Acing that presentation and managing to impress the out of touch CFO is my shot.”
I nod my thanks at the bartender as she slips a cool glass towards me and take a long sip, letting the sweet bite of tequila wash away Ryan’s bitter-tinged kiss. Kara laughs, her infectious giggle pulling one from me.
“God,” she says, “Vince is on another level. Could you imagine all that hair on top of you? I don’t know if buying the diner is worth that.”
The image of the sweaty landlord who currently owns Nan’s old diner flashes before me—his bald head, the only hairless part of him, gleaming as he smokes a cigarette and considers what would probably be my pathetic attempt at sweetening the short-on-cash deal I’d offer.
