CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Scarlett
I’m chomping at thebit to know Austin’s story. I’ve been intrigued by him since we met and if there’s anything I’ve learned throughout my dating and relationship experiences, it’s to be patient. Anything that’s rushed never works out, not in my world, anyway. I figured if things were meant to be, they’d happen in their own time, and if I end up going home, it’s because nothing was going to happen between Austin and me. I don’t believe in fate. I just believe that someday I’ll end up in the right place at the right time with the right guy, which is ironic, since it’s difficult for me to be on time.
“Do you live alone?” I ask.
“No, I have a roommate.”
“Oh, what’s his or her name?”
“Waldo,” he answers. Mmmkay.
“Oh, how fun.”
“He gets out a lot.” I’m trying to figure out if he’s joking or serious, but I probably won’t know until I get there.
“So, answer me this, Austin Trace. It’s dawned on me from hearsay that you might be the most sought-after bachelor in this town. True or false?”
“I’d be cocky if I said true,” he responds.
“But, you’d be lying if you said false,” I correct him.
“Look, there aren’t many options here; let’s be real about this.” This is true.
“I met Laurie-Cate. Her parents are staying at the hotel, and she seemed quite intent on knowing your business.” Just throwing it out there to get a better read on who I should and should not be talking to.
“Aw shit, you met Laurie-Cate?” I look over and cup my hand over my eyes to see him through the glare. “She’s a nut.”
“Well, she seems fairly typical as far as the locals go.”
“Are you saying I’m nuts?” he asks.
“I wouldn’t know.”
“So, you’re coming back to my house with me, admitting you don’t know if I’m nuts, and that’s okay with you?”
“I’m a risk-taker, remember?” I tease.
“You’re full of it,” he snaps back.
“How would you know?”
“You’ve never broken a bone, had surgery or even stitches before you got here. That doesn’t exactly describe a typical risk-taker.” He has a point. Maybe there are just different types of risk takers, and he hasn’t met my type yet.
“Being risky is different when you live in a big city.” He doesn’t even know the risks involved with touching a handlebar on the T, our Boston subway system. “Here, I have an idea.”
“I’m afraid to ask what your idea is,” he says.
“Isn’t that the bar you … oh, how do you say it down here … ‘fancy’?”
“Dickles?” he asks.
Who the hell names a bar Dickles? Do they even know what it sounds like? “Yeah, that place.”
“I’ve been known to ‘fancy’ that bar on occasion.”
I cut in front of Austin, forcing him to stop short, and I walk right into the bar full of men. There wasn’t a sign that said Men Only, but I assume it isn’t a place that women here prefer to spend their time.
