A slight shake of my head. “Old Fashioned.”
He taps the black marble stone bar. “Coming up, Mr. Townsend.”
A minute later, drink in hand, I turn on my stool to face the dimly lit dining area. The faux stone walls create an arched entryway that separates the bar from the dining area where couples and families enjoy their meals.
My eyes land one little boy, about six or seven years old. His attention is riveted to the toy car in his hands as he runs it along the swirling cherrywood of his table. He’s oblivious to the two adults and other child at the table.
A memory of me at eight years old surfaces.
“I’m going to be a champion!” I say, fire engine red toy car in one hand, while I run the thumb of my free hand across the engravings of my father’s Superbowl Championship ring. Dad didn’t typically wear his rings, but that night we’d gone to his induction into the NFL Hall of Fame.
“I’m going to be the best!” I declared as he struggled to get me into bed for the night.
“No one remembers great players who don’t win championships,”I’d overheard him say earlier that night.
Eighteen years later, five years as a Formula 1 driver, and I’m still hunting down my first Drivers’ Championship.
My stomach muscles tighten, and I turn away from the little boy with the toy car.
“What about him?” a woman’s voice reaches me from farther down the bar. “He’s gorgeous.”
A beat passes.
Another woman snorts. “Yeah, too gorgeous. No thanks.”
This piques my interest. I cut my eyes in the direction of the female voices and …Yup. Though she’s trying to be discreet, a woman with her back to me, glances over her shoulder at me.
The woman she’s seated next to, looking past her friend’s shoulder to catch a glimpse of me, has me cocking my head to the side.
She doesn’t notice that I’m also watching her since I’ve switched my gaze to the mirror above the back of the bar. From this angle, I see her clearly. Medium brown skin, same color eyes, oval face, perfectly arched eyebrows, and lips plump and round … perfect for kissing.
Those lips form a frown as she turns back to her friend.
“Ugh, why are you so committed to dating ugly men?” her friend admonishes.
“What? I do not?—”
“Please. Hudson? What about him?”
“Hudson was not ugly,” she argues, but—though I don’t know this woman from a set of fresh soft tires—I pick up that her voice lacks conviction.
“Alyssia, please, that man was facially challenged. You know it, I know it, and his mama knows it.”
The object of my attention smothers a chuckle behind her hand.
“And look what happened. He still dumped you.”
“Gee thanks, friend,” Alyssia replies, voice turning dry.
I smirk into my half-finished drink.
“Don’t give me that. He did you a favor. You deserved way better than him.”
“He was smart and a Ph.D. student,” Alyssia counters.
“So? Was it his credentials you were picturing every time you had to close your eyes to kiss him?”
“Kandace, stop it. You’re being rude.” Alyssia’s warning is as threatening as a stuffed teddy bear. It sounds like she’s trying to keep from laughing.
