Do I know her?
I don’t know her. I’m positive I don’t know her.
Not that it’s likely I’d run into someone I know at a random bar in Hawaii. To the best of my knowledge, Chandler was the only person I anticipated seeing here that I would’ve known before.
Any of his old friends from college would not have been friends of mine.
And this curvy redhead in a shimmery green halter top, flowery skirt, and high-heeled ankle boots wasn’t one of his friends in college. I’m positive I’ve never seen her before.
She has an air.
Asparklethat almost reminds me of my grandmother.
I’d recognize that sparkle if I’d seen this woman before.
“Excuse me,” she says to the kombucha flirt who’s been falling all over me. “Do you mind moving down a seat so I can sit with my husband?”
It should be the most ball-shriveling statement a woman could make.
Especiallygiven the subject of one of the conversations still making my phone vibrate on the bar.
Instead, I realize I’m subconsciously leaning towardherthe same way the kombucha flirt has been leaning intome.
The unwelcome space-invading, kombucha-thieving woman stutters out an awkward response while the redhead circles behind me, trailing those butterfly-wing fingers lightly up my arm, over my shoulders, and down my other arm, setting my skin on fire under my Hawaiian shirt. “Thank you so much! You’re the best.”
I barely register that the kombucha flirt is retreating far,fardown the bar.
All of my attention is on the redhead.
It’s curly.
Her hair, I mean.
It’s a mass of curly copper frizzing all over her head.
She’s so short, even in the heeled boots, that she has to boost herself into the newly vacant bar stool. And now that sparkle is fading as she gives me a pained smile. “Apologies for invading your bubble. You looked like you needed a save, and I need to do about five thousand more good deeds today. I’ll pretend to talk to you for a few more minutes and then be on my way. You can ignore me.”
“Stay.” The word falls out of my mouth while my guard goes up.
If there’s one thing marital counseling taught me and that recent business developments reinforced, it’s that I’m historically terrible at recognizing when I’m being manipulated.
So I’m studying this woman closely while her smile goes from pained toI have sunk to the most miserable depths of hell and will never get out.
“Oh,honey,” she says, rapidly shaking her head, “you donotwant my stink on you.”
Yep.
I’m officially intrigued.
Still massively on guard—can’t help it—but intrigued. “You murder someone?”
She grimaces. “Only their reputation.”
“And how—”
“Get you something?” the bartender interrupts.
The redhead flashes a smile at him. “Water, please. And his drinks are on me.”
