“Evening, Sir,” an older woman greets us as we hover at the door. Evening? Shit, what time is it? “Table for two?” I don’t object when I find myself being steered to a booth within the small bar. I’m pretty sure my stomach is going to start digesting my organs soon.
“What’ll it be?” she smiles cheerily.
“Christ, I could use a fucking drink,” I mutter, glancing at the nearby bar counter. She narrows her eyes on me.
“Uh…you bring ID, miss?”
The fuck?
“Screw you! I’m 25!”
What? Why did I say that? What’s wrong with 22?
Because maybe 25 is a little closer to GQ’s age?
Bullshit!
Besides, the guy’s pushing 35, at least. And again… I. Don’t. Care.
The waitress is still eyeing me with suspicion.
“My friend is of legal drinking age, Caroline,” GQ says with an easy smile as he reads her name off the tag on her ample chest. The waitress stares at him, then does that simpering thing like the woman at the hotel, and finally looks at me, pen poised over her little notepad.
“Two tequilas,” I say icily. “And don’t bother with that lemon and salt shite.”
“I didn’t ask for a drink,” he says. I level him with a stare.
“I didn’t order one for you.”
“And to eat, Miss?” the waitress asks.
I pause for a second. Dammit, I really don’t want to owe the fucker another cent. My stomach protests again.
“You got bangers and mash?” I ask, not bothering to look down at the sticky menu.
“What?” The woman seems confused.
“Pie and mushy peas?”
She continues to stare at me.
“We’ll take a couple of burgers and fries, Caroline.” Mr. Congeniality smiles up at her. “And you can add a tequila for me, too.” The woman seems starstruck as she smiles back, then turns away to fix our orders. What’s wrong with these fucking chicks? I’d never go gaga over a guy like that.
Right. And you’re 25, Em? What was that about?
“You didn’t need to fucking order for me, twat. I’m not some little child.”
“Jesus Christ!” he mutters, running a hand through thick dark hair. A heavy, tattooed bicep flexes, straining the sleeve of the snug gray t-shirt he’d scored at the shop. Hello! Tattoos? Maybe not such a sweet little rich boy after all.
What am I thinking? Probably got them as part of a frat boy dare or something. Anyhow, the guy did better out of the shopping excursion than I did – the shirt is paired with a pair of clingy black sweatpants that manage to mold his hard ass “just so.” Not that I was looking or anything. But still…
I glare at him for a second. He huffs out a breath.
“Got a fucking problem?”
“You know, you curse more than any educated woman I’ve ever met,” he says.
“Who says I’m educated? Tosser.”
