“That’s not what I asked.”
Something about his old-school courtesy jolts me.
“Then yes. You may.”
He sits, and the air between us crackles. The bartender arrives.
“Macallan 18. Neat.”
Of course he drinks expensive scotch.
His vintage Rolex catches the light—one I’d once researched as a fantasy gift for Derek. A seventeen-million-dollar kind of fantasy. Pathetic.
“Let me guess,” I say, bold with alcohol. “CEO? Lawyer? Finance bro who’s ‘killing it’?”
His mouth curves. It’s not quite a smile, but close. “Venture capital.”
“Ah. You make moneyby having money.”
“I make money by knowing which ideas will change the world.” He turns slightly, giving me his full attention. “What do you do?”
“Graphic design.” I swallow. “I had an interview at a VC firm this morning. If I get it, I start Monday.”
“Congratulations.” He raises his glass. “To new beginnings.”
Our glasses clink. We drink.
“So,” I say, checking my phone, “what brings a venture capitalist to a bar at eleven-thirty on a Friday? Don’t you have galas to be bored at?”
“I left early.”
“Rebel.”
His mouth twitches. “Something like that. And you? Besides the obvious desire for alcohol poisoning?”
“I caught my boyfriend fucking our neighbor three hours ago.”
Flat. Empty. Almost funny in its horror.
He raises a brow. “And you’re here instead of setting his house on fire. Admirable restraint.”
“The night’s not over.”
I mean it as a joke. It scares me a little that a part of me isn’t kidding.
He smiles—dimple and all. God, he’s beautiful.
“What about you?” I ask. “What are you running from?”
“Who says I’m running?”
“Everyone in this bar is running from something. That’s what places like this are for. Beautiful people, expensive drinks, pretending they’re not broken.”
“You’re perceptive.”
“I’m drunk.”
“Not mutually exclusive.”
