The man raises his beer and holds up two fingers. I can’t look at Ray when he sets one down in front of me. Once he’s moved on to his next customer, I ditch the cocktail and grab the beer, but before I can take a drink, he taps the neck of his to the neck of mine. “I hope this is more to your liking.”
I’ve never been so happy to cleanse my palate. I blot my lips with the paper napkin after I take a long swig. “Thank you for the drink.”
His stare holds mine while I silently reciteThis is not why you’re here!over and over. I shouldn’t be talking to this stranger. Letting this stranger buy me drinks.
“I really want to sayYou’re not from around here, because I know everyone from around here, but I realize it’s the absolute worst line.”
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. “Yeah, don’t say that,” I say, even though he already did.
This is where I should mention Ben.
But I’m tired of talking about Ben. Ben and his high-profile cases. I’m over explaining how a wife can get really bored when her husband spends more time at the office than at home. And as soon as I mention Ben, this man’s gaze would search for my still-hidden left hand. His eyes would move to the diamond earrings and the Chanel purse hanging off the back of my stool, then to the smoky eyes and red-stained lips that match my dress perfectly. I can already anticipate the change in his demeanor after he has summed me up with such a quick appraisal: what a spoiled brat I must be.
So I don’t mention Ben or demanding clients or big court cases.
The stranger next to me doesn’t offer his name, nor do I offer mine. Maybe there’s a woman he should mention but chooses not to as well. Maybe we’re both enjoying a few minutes in which we could be anyone other than who we’re supposed to be.
“I’m calling your bluff that you know everyone here.”
His eyes light up. “Try me.”
I swivel back around toward the crowd and he does the same. My eyes sweep across the room until they land on a middle-aged man in faded jeans and a black leather biker vest covered in patches. No shirt underneath, just the vest. It’s not a bad look, but in my opinion the arms need to be droolworthy to really pull it off, and sadly, his are not. I lean closer and try to point at my target without being too obvious. “What’s that guy’s name, and tell me one interesting fact about him.”
The space between us shrinks even more. He laughs when he seeswho I’m asking about. “Ah, we’re starting out with an easy one, I guess. That’s Kenny Hudson. He manages the bakery on Commerce Street. While you would think there’s a Harley in the parking lot with his name on it, he actually drove here in a beige Corolla. He bought that vest on eBay. A couple of guys roasted him the first time he showed up wearing it, and he retaliated by taking his apple crumble off the menu for the next week. No one has said anything to him since.”
I can’t stop the laugh that started somewhere in the middle of his description of Kenny. “I don’t believe you.”
He shrugs one shoulder. “It’s a mean apple crumble.” His face is close and the corner of his mouth is kicked up in an adorable little smirk. “Maybe that’s what brought you to town? Kenny’s world-famous apple crumble?”
The smile on my face feels permanent now. This guy is ridiculously charming. “Okay, game on.” I scan the crowd once more. “What about the woman leaning against the jukebox?” She’s got her back to the machine and seems oblivious to everything and everyone around her while endlessly scrolling on her phone.
“Oh, that’s a sad tale for sure,” he says. “That’s Frieda von Samsung.”
I almost spit out my beer. “Did you just say Frieda von Samsung?”
“Yeah, she’s the missing heiress of the Samsung empire. But she’s an Apple girl at heart so she ran away and has been in hiding here ever since, so she can live in peace with her iPhone.” He leans a little closer. “Did you come here to find Frieda von Samsung so you could collect the reward?”
I’m not even trying to hold my laugh back. “You caught me. I have been tracking Frieda since she fled from home.”
The next thirty minutes fly by as we move from person to person, each description more and more absurd. And each one ending with his increasingly far-fetched guesses for why I’m here. The band has finallystarted playing, and by the second song the dance floor is about half full, even though thisisthe worst band I’ve ever heard.
“Had high hopes for this band but it looks like Gary’s taste hasn’t gotten any better,” he says, nodding toward the guys onstage.
“Oh, I hate to hear that.” I give him a small frown. “I’m their manager. Cheese Freedom has a lot of potential. I’m determined to make them the next One Direction.”
For a split second, I’ve caught him off guard, then his mouth stretches into a smile, and I have to admit he’s not only charming, he’s devastatingly handsome.
“Just for that, you’re going to have to dance with me while Cheese Freedom destroys this Tom Petty song.”
Before I can even consider whether to take him up on his offer, my screen lights up with the alarm that was set earlier, and I’m reminded very quickly my day isn’t over just yet. I swipe it from the bar and turn it off, then flag Ray down and make the universal sign for the check.
“You’re going already?” the man asks once we’re both turned back toward the bar.
“Yes, I’m sorry.” It’s been fun killing time flirting with him but I need to go.
Ray hands me my bill and I give him a credit card without looking at the total. When he returns, I scribble a generous tip on the slip and sign across the bottom line.
Sliding off the stool, I pray I don’t roll an ankle so I can get out of this bar with some dignity still intact. Just before I step away, the man asks, “Can I walk you out?”
