Instead of making a desert beetle (gross), he rounds the end of the bar, stepping out from behind it. He strides our way, and it really is unfair how good he looks. His shoulders stretch on forever. His chest is muscled just right, giving way to a tapered waist. He was handsome back then, but this is... well, this is something else entirely.
“Come on,” he says, stopping beside me and the woman.
“Me?” I ask, pointing back at myself. I am beyond confused. Didn’t this lady just order a drink from him?
Klein makes a face at me, and I shrink back. “No,” he grunts, clearly irritated at my question.
“Oh gee, sorry, I guess you were talking to someone else you drunkenly sucked face with eight years ago.”
He gives me a sharp look. I ignore it. The wine is hitting me now. So is the embarrassment at thinking it was me Klein was inviting to join him to some unknown place.
The woman steps away, and Klein takes her by the elbow. I know this is the least sexual part of the body and so it shouldn’t matter that he’s touching her. It also shouldn’t matter becausewe hates him, but I can’t helpfeeling slighted. I was in the middle of verbally sparring and she ruined it.
Wait a damn minute. Is ‘desert beetle’ a bizarre code for a hookup? Is Klein a part of a tawdry club of individuals who order sex acts using code words?
I’m going to be sick.
The pink-haired bartender who I feel too intimidated by to ask her name comes my way. She doesn’t know Klein poured me a second glass, and when she gestures with the bottle I nod my head.
I cannot begin to understand the last thirty minutes of my life. I give up.
CHAPTER 5
Klein
“Get home safe.”I tap the hood of the white Honda Civic.
The driver, Saul, gives me a two-fingered salute and pulls away from the curb. The woman, safely tucked inside, waves from the back seat.
I’d like to order a desert beetleis code forI’m on a date and I don’t feel safe, please escort me out.
It’s posted on the inside of every stall door in the ladies’ restroom. We are under strict instruction from management to drop everything we’re doing, no matter what it is or how busy we are, and help the person out to their car.
Tonight was the third time this has happened to me. The woman, Annie, didn’t have a vehicle to drive home, so I waited with her until the Uber came. Luckily there was one nearby, and the wait was only seven minutes.
I’m stepping back into the restaurant, preparing myself to address Paisley’ssucking facecomment, just in time to catch Paisley’s beautiful face with her eyebrowsdrawn, stiff pointer finger extended, say to a group of young guys, “Nice matching hairstyles. You know who else gets perms? Your great-grandmas.”
I pause long enough to rake a hand down my face and push away the reluctant smile tugging at my lips. She’s not wrong. All five guys probably turned twenty-one in the last year, and all five sport matching unnaturally curly hair.
Hustling to the bar, I place myself between Paisley’s indignant eyebrows and the death stare she’s sending their way.
“Pais,” I start but she transfers her ire to me.
“Do not call me that,” she thunders, a storm brewing in her blue-green eyes. There’s a softness there too, a fragility that tugs at my chest, stirring me.
I hold up my hands. I’m not interested in pissing her off. Not any more than I do simply by existing. “No problem.”
I hurry around the bar and return to where I’d been standing before the blonde showed up. Peeking at the tab in front of Paisley, I see Halston has added a third glass of wine.
Wow. Ok. Paisley is probably pretty drunk, and I know she had at least one lychee martini with dinner.
Her arms cross, her eyebrows tugging together. “Those guys?—”
I wave off her explanation. “They’ve been mouthy since they arrived. I’m sure they deserved it.”
Leaning her elbows on the bar, she rubs at her eyes and admits, “I’m drunk.”
Pushing down my laugh, I say, “I know.” To busy myself, I grab a towel and wipe down the bar beside her.
