So it was almost a mercy Chris had the guts to tell me I was a dud in bed. While surely not the only thing lacking about me, it was at least something I could fix. After months of wallowing, I was finally ready to take the bull by the horns and become someone worldly and exciting. I’d be bold in bed if it killed me—which, quite honestly, judging by how this night was going, it might.
I’d now been staring at the dark-haired man for an embarrassingly long time, but he didn’t seem to notice, focused as he was on his drink. So I summoned all my courage and thought WWLD:What Would Lee Do?
“Sir,” I said. Oh, bad start. Was I twelve? Try again. “Um, you there, in the shirt. With the—sleeves. I’d like to buy you a drink.”
2
The Gamble
Surprised, the dark-haired man turned to me, and there it was again:the electric reaction, lightning through my body. “Not necessary.” His voice was gruff. “Sitting next to that guy was ruining my night, too. It was a self-serving act, trust me. Besides, he wouldn’t have fought me. Guys like that fold when challenged.”
“Oh, okay,” I said. “Great.” I was smiling and nodding like he’d just said something terribly agreeable instead of outright rejecting me. Oh, God: he’drejectedme. Confident he’d already turned back to his drink, I looked down at the bar and widened my eyes in silent horror at my reflection in the brass.
“Uh,” he said. My head snapped up. He was, in fact, still watching me. His velvet-brown eyes tracked from my frozen face to my hunched shoulders. He rubbed contemplatively at the stubble on his jaw. “Okay. Yeah, you know what? I’ll take that drink. Thanks.”
He would? “Bartender!” I called, a little desperate. The bartender was heading to the other side of the bar, meaning I’d have to wait in excruciatingly awkward silence next to the dark-haired man if I didn’t make this happen now.
Thankfully, the bartender stopped and nodded. “Another martini?”
“Yes. And a—” I glanced at the man.
“Whiskey, neat. Whatever’s cheap works.” When the bartender shot off, the dark-haired man turned back to me. “I’m Logan, by the way.” The way he said it and then watched me, as if waiting for some reaction, threw me a bit, but I smiled anyway. “I’m—”
“Ruby. Yeah, I heard. Kind of impossible not to, sorry.”
Oops. Did I correct the lie and look like a weirdo? A thought occurred to me: It might not be too late to make this night what I wanted. Maybe I could stillbewho I wanted—which, to be clear, was anyone other than the old Alexis. “That’s right,” I said, settling back in my barstool. “Ruby Dangerfield.”
Logan’s mouth quirked, but at least I hadn’t had whatever reaction he’d been bracing for, because his shoulders relaxed. “What brings you out among the goons and buffoons tonight, Ruby?”
“It’s the two-year anniversary of the night my ex cheated on me,” I said, shocking myself. It turned out Ruby was forthright.
The bartender slid our drinks across the bar. Logan picked up his tumbler and tipped it in my direction. “Well. Cheers, then. It’s the one-year anniversary of the night Arsenal crushed Tottenham on their home turf.”
“What?”
“Sorry,” he said. “Just trying to think of something equally depressing.”
Laughter burst from me. “Yes, I’m sure that must’ve been very hard for you.” Okay, the soccer reference told me I’d been right about his accent: the man was clearly British.
“Damn near crushed me. Come on.” Logan slipped off his barstool, nodding toward the crowded tables. “A table just opened. If that’s the reason you’re here, you’re clearly looking to tie one on. Been there myself. We can’t have any more jerks bothering you while you’re on a sacred mission to wipe some fucker from your memory.”
He took off without waiting for me, just scooped his jacket and marched in the direction of a small table in the corner, nearly hidden under the fronds of a sweeping palm. I didn’t think twice. Given the choice between sitting alone at the bar—technically, what I’d come here to do—or remaining in the cocoon of this strangely acerbic man, I chose the cocoon.
I dropped into the chair across from Logan and he rested his elbows on the table, leaning over to tip his drink at me. “A real toast this time. To fresh starts.”
I clinked his glass, feeling the butterflies swoop and dive. I was closer to him now, separated by nothing more than a small circular table, so I could see the tiny details of his face: the soot-dark lashes tipping toward his strong brow, the amber ring around his pupils, the Cupid’s bow of his upper lip, topping his wry smile. I shifted underneath the table and my knee slid against his, rubbing the smooth fabric of his pants. I jerked it away and took an overlarge sip of my drink.
“So,” I said, once I’d nearly drained the martini. “Do you come here often?” He didn’t seem the type, but what if the Fleur de Lis was hisroutine hookup spot same as everyone else?
Logan paused midsip and grinned, teeth dazzling. I realized what I’d said and could actuallyfeelmyself turning red. “That’s a pickup line, isn’t it?”
“One of the oldest in the book. You know, if you leave now, I think you can catch up with your friend Carter.”
I groaned, covering my face. “I was genuinely curious!”
His smile remained wolfish. “No, I come here never. But it’s only a few blocks from my office, and I had a long day at work. Needed to drown myself in whiskey somewhere within stumbling distance. Voilà, the Fleur de Lis.” He glanced around. “Turns out this place is a scene.”
The bar had grown even more crowded since we’d left, and the overflow milled around us, people waiting their turn. One guy in particular seemed oblivious to our presence behind him—he kept edging so close his butt brushed my arm. Logan eyed him disapprovingly.
