But for now, a drink. I nod toward her empty glass. “Rosé?”
She lifts a brow. “You noticed what I was drinking?”
“I notice lots of things.” But I don’t want her to think I’m just as bad as that guy, like I’ve been stalking her in a whole new way, so I widen the aperture. “Like, I noticed the women over there traded lipsticks before they shot selfies while drinking cosmos, and the guy who hit on you removed his wedding band.”
My companion’s lips part. “He did? I noticed a tan line, but not that he’d taken it off.”
“About fifteen seconds before he moved next to you. And the bartender didn’t come over because he was working on a big order for a dozen blueberry margaritas.”
“Are you an anthropologist studying bar behavior? A secret shopper who observes hotel lobbies? Or a superhero who saves the day when a gal needs a temporary boyfriend to ward off creepers?”
I laugh. “The latter sounds like a good gig. But no, I’m just observant.” I offer my hand. “Banks. I’m in town for the night from Los Angeles.”
For a brief second, she appears taken aback when I say Los Angeles, but then clears her expression and says, “Ripley.” Like it’s important to her to say her name. “LikeRipley’s Believe It or Not!”
“Or Ripley fromAlien,” I add.
“OrThe Talented Mr. Ripley. I’m in the city from—” She must think the better of supplying that detail because, with barely a pause, she finishes, “A little town by the coast.” She holds my hand for a beat longer than most do, and I definitely don’t mind the extended shake or the way she holds back where she’s from. That’s just smart for a woman these days.
She lets go of my hand as the bartender comes our way.
I raise a finger to get his attention, and he stops in front of us.
“Sorry for the wait. Had a big order.” His smile is apologetic. “Thanks for your patience. What can I get you?”
Ripley shoots me a look that says she’s impressed. I like it—thecute smirk, the twinkle in her irises. “No worries, Duke,” I tell the bartender, reading his name tag. “A rosé for the lady.”
“Actually, a whiskey sour for me,” she says, keeping me on my toes.
“I stand corrected,” I say.
Then, she continues to keep me on my toes, tilting her head toward my glass. “And what was it you were drinking? Bourbon?”
I let out a low, appreciative whistle as I reach for the credit card in my pocket and slap it down. “Yes, I was. But I’ll have the same as my…girlfriend.”
She rolls her lips, sealing up some satisfied laughter.
“Two whiskey sours coming right up,” Duke says.
When he leaves, I turn to Ripley. “And so are you—observant, that is.”
She shakes her head, dismissing the compliment. “I was actually admiring your butterfly when I noticed the drink. I’m more of a gambler. I took a guess it was bourbon.”
“Gut instinct,” I say with an approving nod. My job, my whole business, is fueled by gut instinct. “That’s a good thing.”
She gives me a grateful smile. “Seriously though. I appreciate what you did.”
“It’s no problem,” I reply.
“And guys wonder why we think dating is rough. But I’m glad you decided to fake date me tonight.” She pauses a moment, teasing me with a smile. “And I’m extra glad you decided to be myboyfriend, not just someone meeting me for a first date.”
“You don’t like first dates?” I ask. But who does?
She gives a faux shudder. “First dates are horrible. It’s like a review of your dating CV. All that talk about what you do for a living, where you see yourself in a few years, how many pet goldfish you have, and so on.”
“I don’t have any pet goldfish,” I say dryly.
“Good.” She crosses her legs. I try not to check her out too blatantly but damn, she’s not only beautiful—those eyes are impossibly captivating—she’s also seriously fucking hot in jeans and a cropped white hoodie that slopes down her shoulder, revealing more of her neckline. I want to roam my eyes up and down her long legs and her athletic frame, enjoying the view, but staring would make me no better than that guy I nearly tossed in the trash.
