Instead, I end up at O’Malley’s.
It’s an Irish pub three blocks from my penthouse. It’s got dark wood and brass fixtures. The kind of place where nobody asks questions. I’ve been coming here for years when I need to turn my brain off.
I order a Macallan 18, neat, and claim my usual spot at the far end of the bar.
That’s when I see her.
She’s sitting three stools down, nursing what looks like a gin and tonic. Dark brown hair that borders on black has been gathered together to rest on her right shoulder, which exposes the graceful line of her neck. Her profile is striking, with a strong nose, full lips, and a slight crease between her brows like it’s permanently indented there. She’s petite but not fragile. Maybe five-four, with the most delicious curves I’ve ever laid eyes on. Her skin is fair, with a smattering of freckles across her cheekbones.
When she turns to flag down the bartender, I get a full view of her face.
Gorgeous. Not in the plastic, paid-for way I’m used to from women who circle my social orbit. She’s wearing minimal makeup—maybe just mascara and something on her lips. Dark brown eyes dart around, bouncing from one side of the room to the other.
She catches me staring. Most women would either look away or offer an inviting smile. She does neither. Rather, she just holds my gaze, evaluating, before returning to her drink.
I should leave her alone.
But something about her pulls at me. A gravity I can’t explain.
I move to the stool next to hers and ask, “Buy you another drink?”
She eyes my face, my clothes, and my posture, seemingly inspecting me for intent. “That depends. Are you going to spend the next hour telling me about your job, your car, or your investment portfolio?”
The corner of my mouth twitches. “I wasn’t planning on it.”
“Then sure.” She pushes her empty glass toward the bartender. “Gin and tonic. Hendricks.”
I signal for another round. “Rough night?”
“Rough month. You?”
“Something like that.”
“Cryptic.” She takes a sip. “What brings you to a dive bar on a Friday night?”
“What makes you think I have anywhere else to be?”
She gestures at my chest. “The suit. The watch. You look like you just walked out of a board meeting.”
“Maybe I did.”
“At nine p.m.?”
“Work doesn’t keep regular hours in my world.”
“Workaholic.” She says it like a diagnosis. “Let me guess. You spend so much time building the empire that you forgot how to have a conversation that doesn’t involve quarterly projections.”
I bark out a laugh. “You’re not wrong.”
“I rarely am.”
We talk for over an hour. She’s smart, quick-witted, and deflects personal questions with skill. I learn almost nothing concrete about her—not her name, not her job—but I learn everything that matters. The way she thinks. The rhythm of her humor.
Around eleven, she sets down her third drink.
“I should go,” she states. “It’s getting late.”
But neither of us moves, and I take that as my cue.
