Well, if this wasn’t kismet, she didn’t know what was.
She picked up the glass, nodded her thanks to him, and took a sip.
Quinn was up in a flash, headed right toward her. She watched as he walked, studying him. Definitely sixty, maybe more, but he’d been to the gym and possibly the plastic surgeon since that last picture she saw.
At first glance, he wasn’t unattractive. Not her type, though.
Her second glance came as he stood next to her and looked her right in the eyes.
“I have never seen you in here before,” he said, his voice low and unmistakably flirtatious. “Welcome.”
She turned on the barstool to face him, her brain whirring with how to handle this unexpected encounter. She took a breath, conjured up her brightest smile, and extended her hand to keep it professional.
No matter what, she wouldn’t lie. She’d just…learn.
“Vivien Lawson,” she said. “It’s my first time.”
He shook a little too hard, his gray-blue eyes taking a not-so-quick trip over her. “Beautiful name, Vivien. Like…theGone With the Windactress.”
“That’s who I’m named after.”
“Really?”
“Really,” she assured him. “My mother has a dog named Aunt Pittypat.”
He laughed, hard and from his barrel chest. “I love it.”
“And who are you?” she asked, as if she hadn’t just Googled the man five minutes ago.
“Quinn Hargrove.”
No one would call him handsome, but she sensed an underlying energy that probably made him magnetic. And successful, even if his ill-gotten gains came from demolishing memories and landmarks.
“I take it you’re a regular, Mr. Hargrove?”
The corner of his mouth lifted. “Mr. Hargrove makes me feel old. So does being a regular at a bar. Call me Quinn and I’ll pretend it’s my first time, too.”
“Too late for that and you can’t lie. About anything.” She added a smile. “That’s my bar rule.”
He chuckled and took a of sip of what smelled like whiskey. “You have rules, huh? Okay.” He waited a beat, as if sizing her up or maybe trying to think of something to say. “You a boat person? Or just here for the ambience?”
“Just the ambience tonight.”
“Smart woman. Boats are money pits. Ask me how I know.”
She lifted a brow. “You own a boat.”
“Three of them. Small, medium, and stupid but impressive.”
She wasn’t impressed, but smiled. “Is boating your profession?”
“Nah. I’m the clean-up guy,” he said easily. “I get rid of things people don’t want to look at anymore. And, honey, I’ve made millions off people’s dead dreams.”
She tried not to cringe at the term of endearment or the social faux pas of talking income. Her mother would “bless his heart” and walk away.
But he’d opened the door to the very reason she was sitting in this overcrowded bar on a Friday happy hour.
“How does one…clean up dreams?” she asked.
