“No, we’ll go together. I won’t be able to relax until I know he’s okay.”
He says nothing, only shrugging at my response, but his smile is full of secrets.
I swear, these two men are downright strange.
When I push through the door of the bar, I have to stand there blinking for a moment, letting my eyes adjust to the dim.
The place is so dark it might as well be underground, and it’s unrelentingly shabby. Everything is faded, peeling, or cracked. An old jukebox plays ‘Love Me Tender.’ A guy with a bushy black beard in a Led Zeppelin T-shirt polishes glasses behind the bar.
It smells like cigarettes, stale beer, and lost dreams, and is quite possibly the most depressing place on earth.
And there, in the end booth in the corner, sits Mason, staring down at the empty glass in his hand.
My heart does a funny little flip under my ribcage. He looks so forlorn, like his dog just died and his car broke down and he’s never had a friend in the world.
Then he glances up and catches sight of me, and his melancholy look changes to one of irritation.
I foresee more growling in my future.
Squaring my shoulders, I cross the sticky floor to his booth. I slide onto the seat opposite him, wishing I had a bottle of antibacterial gel in my purse.
“If your immune system is compromised, don’t touch anything.”
His voice is even. His expression has gone from irritated to guarded. But he’s not yelling, so it’s a start.
“I like it more than The Four Seasons.”
When Mason lifts his brows in disbelief, I smile. “It doesn’t smell like brimstone in here.”
He chuckles. It feels like a victory.
“Is Bettina with you?”
I crinkle my nose. “Lord, no. She stormed out of the restaurant right after you did. Probably had to go polish her pitchfork. Dick’s outside, though.”
“He sent you in to get me?”
“He seemed to think our fight would somehow be better than yours.”
Mason considers that, then says, “Huh.”
An open bottle of Jack Daniels sits on the table next his elbow. Seeing me notice it, he picks it up and pours himself another glass, right up to the brim. With defiance in his eyes, he sets the bottle down and picks up the glass.
I say calmly, “You’re not going to offer me one?”
Surprised, he sets the glass back down.
“If you want to get blind drunk on a Sunday morning, that’s your prerogative. However, if a lady is present, it’s only good manners that you offer her a drink as well.”
He says sourly, “You’re lecturing me.”
“Incorrect. I’m coaching you. Unless you fired me between here and The Four Seasons and haven’t gotten around to telling me yet.”
“I’m surprised you wanna keep coaching me, seeing what a lost cause I am.”
“You’re not lost. You’re just taking a detour.”
He gazes at me for a beat, his gray eyes penetrating. “Do you even drink whiskey?”
I say archly, “Just because I wear a lot of pink doesn’t make me a P-word.”
Another chuckle, this one very dry. “That would’ve been so much more impressive if you’d actually said the P-word.”
“If I’d actually said the P-word, my mother would’ve rolled over in her grave.”
I can tell he’s surprised by the mention of my mother, and intrigued, but he doesn’t ask a question, so I offer up the information on my own.
“She and my dad died in a car accident when I was sixteen. I was in the back seat, but except for a few scratches and bruises, I wasn’t hurt.” I take the glass from his hand and swallow a big gulp of whiskey, grimacing at the burn.
“Fuck,” he says softly. Then: “Shit, sorry.” He winces. “Oh, crap.”
I wave it off. “Don’t worry about it. Sundays are cheat days, anyway.”
“Cheat days?”
“Yeah, like when you’re on a diet and you give yourself one day a week to go crazy and eat all the junk food and sweets you want.”
He squints at me. “I’m having a hard time imagining you going crazy.”
“It was a figure of speech.” I take another swig of whiskey, then push the glass toward him. “You ever tried Glenlivet? That’s my favorite.”
Mason looks like he’s going to fall out of the booth. “You really do drink whiskey.”
I smile at him. “Let me guess. You thought I’d like… piña coladas?”
“I was thinking more along the lines of Shirley Temples.”
That stings. “Right. I enjoy a few non-alcoholic cocktails while I’m grooming all my cats.”
I look down at my hands, vowing to ditch my nude nail polish and start wearing something edgier. Maybe I’ll get some of those pointy stiletto nails, too, and use them as weapons. I could claw Bettina’s eyes out.
The thought makes me feel substantially better.
When I glance up at Mason, he’s studying me with such focus my face flushes. “What?”
“Tell me about Robert.”
I’m taken aback by his intensity. It’s the kind usually reserved for stalkers. “Why?”
“I’m curious.”
When I heave a sigh, he says, “You know everything about the type of woman I like, right down to bra size.”
I say sourly, “Yes, and I really could’ve gone my whole life without that particular tidbit of information, thank you very much.”
“Meanwhile, I’m in the dark about your type.”
When I send him a questioning look, he says casually, “Maybe I know someone.”
“You’re assuming I’m looking.”
“Aren’t you?”
“No.”
That surprises him. He leans back in the booth and simply stares at me.
“I’m too busy with work.”
One corner of his mouth quirks. “Matchmaking.”
“Don’t say it like that. I’m helping people. I’m helping you, bozo.”
Holding my gaze, he says softly, “Yeah, but we both know what I really need isn’t a wife.”
The flush spreads down my face to my neck. “If you’re putting yourself down right now, stop it. I don’t like it when you do that.” When he doesn’t respond, I start to get nervous. “Unless you were talking about, um, sex or something.”
He arches his brows.
I ask timidly, “Were you talking about sex?”
“Let’s get back to Robert.”
“Let’s not.”
“Come on. I haven’t fired you yet. You have to do what I say.”
That makes me laugh. “Uh, no, superstar, that’s not how this works.”
Leaning forward on his elbows, Mason pins me in a gaze so hot and intense I feel for a moment like I’m sitting in a sauna dressed in every piece of clothing I own. Sweat breaks out along my hairline.
He says, “Did he satisfy you sexually?”
“Wow, go straight for the jugular, why don’t you?”
Bypassing my shock, he continues. “Because I can’t imagine a guy like that having any idea what he’s doing in bed.”
I feel insulted on Bobby’s behalf. Our sex life wasn’t great, but it wasn’t terrible, either.