A little bubble of laughter rose up inside her on that thought, but she swallowed it down as she said, "Darla Davis. I should be on the list?"
The bulky bouncer with tattoos winding up his muscled neck grinned wide.
"Hey, Darla Davis," he said in a seriously deep baritone. "Have a good time."
Then he opened the door to let her inside.
The photographers snapped away, taking her photo as she started to step through the door. Huh? She wasn’t exactly hot stuff.
She was a nurse. Nurses didn’t have random photographers snapping their photos.
But if they wanted to take her photo, what the hell? She did a pose and wave like this was a red carpet and she was a starlet.
One last wave and she stepped through the door only a little late.
Honestly, at one point today she thought she’d have to cancel thanks to the stomach bug taking out half of Denver. The emergency room was short staffed, and she got called in. Whatchagonnado?
She slipped her scarf down her neck and shook out her hair. The pink scarf with purple beads was one of her favorites, and something she rarely got to wear since, until recently, she didn’t get the chance to go out that often. A quick look around the bar and…well…a bar was a bar, right? Dim and dark with neon beer signs and a jukebox in the back corner. An old school jukebox that probably still took loose change. The whole place smelled like stale beer, a mash-up of cologne, and sweat.
A man brushed against her as he slipped by to go outside. She side-stepped out of his way, still scanning the tables for her date. Maybe a little part of her was hoping for a glimpse of Dr. Stone.
No celebrity doctor in the house, but, honestly? This place was kind of perfect. The type of joint she’d never have been able to get her ex to visit.
And then she saw the guy from the app. Sitting in a corner booth, nursing his beer, and talking to the petite waitress. Darla recognized him from his profile picture on Nocturnal Cupid, but it didn’t really do him justice. His eyes sparked full of humor in the dim light of the bar. The corners of his full lips crinkled when he smiled, and Darla found herself feeling actually hopeful. Heck, the little dimples at the edge of his lips that just barely kissed the edge of his close-trimmed beard practically smacked her in the face with a whole handful of hope.
Maybe the dating pool wasn’t such a bad place to go swimming after all, because this guy was the stuff of wet dreams.
She’d only had enough time to change her clothes, slather on a bit of lipstick, and finger-comb her hair. Looking at him? She wished she’d taken some extra time with the makeup and the mirror. Could someone like her really handle a man like him?
Well, she was ready to give it a go.
God, he was attractive with eyes so blue every woman on the planet would probably discover a new love of sapphires if he looked their way. Not the lab-grown ones, either. The real freaking deal.
He’d gone with a T-shirt under his jacket with the jeans. The tee pulled taut against his muscles. The jeans? They were a sonnet waiting to be written.
Hell, had the man been a Cheeto, he’d have been the flaming hot variety.
His oddly attractive lopsided grin somehow actually complemented his leather jacket. His black hair was shaved at the sides with the top slicked back. The beard definitely upped his hot guy quotient. The intricate tattoo that peeked out from the edge of his jacket sleeve and wound around his wrist was an excellent final touch to the whole bad boy schtick he had going on.
The server slipped Mach a small piece of paper Darla didn’t have to be a psychic to know held her digits.
Did he shove it in his pocket? Oh, hell, yes, he did. Her lips pursed all on their own without any direction from her brain.
But, actually, that was fine. It’s not like they even knew each other, and the date hadn’t officially started so he was under no obligation to her. Still, that didn’t sit right, and the feeling in her belly sort of felt like the stomach bug she’d dealt with all day at the hospital.
But, hey, she could leave at any point. There was no reason she had to stay past the introductions. On this reasoning, Darla slowly made her way through the crowd, dodging drinks in hands, and skirting around the people surrounding the stage, all the way to the booth.
She brushed her bangs out of her eyes, and heaved a huge breath.
"Mach?" she asked.
Mach was such a great name. Sturdy and strong. She’d liked his name right away and it was part of the reason she swiped right. The way he spelled it differently, Mach, was so unique. Different was what she was going for this time when she got involved with anyone.
He glanced up from chatting with the server. The server who blinked extra hard and scanned Darla from head to toe. Then she smiled as though Darla was no competition at all. Two feet tall and made of stained glass… that’s how Darla really felt inside. But she squared her shoulders, and she wouldn’t show it.
Also, okay, so Darla might not have been the prize of all prizes, but she wasn’t ugh either. So she could do without that extra helping of server side-eye.
"Darla," he said, unfolding himself from the booth. Gah, he was taller than she’d expected.
The bar had gone weirdly quiet, so only the music from the jukebox played in the background. What was that all about?
Darla didn’t like the prickly sensation tingling the nerves along her spine.
Mach gestured for her to come closer, but Darla hesitated.
Then with confidence she totally faked, she closed the distance between them. But when she turned to slide onto the bench, the whole bar—every single person—was staring at her.
Mach seemed oblivious to the sudden silence, though, or the eyes on them.
"Lucky winner, Darla," he said, then he gestured to the server. "Anything she wants."
Lucky winner? A bit presumptuous, wasn’t he? But, you know, confidence was a good thing in a dude.
"Club soda with a twist of lemon, please," she said.
"Anything else?" The server—her name tag read Pam—lifted her eyebrows almost as though suggesting Darla pick something else.
Darla’s smile faltered a little, but she recovered. "That’s it."
She wanted a clear head for this evening so she could appropriately determine compatibility. Vodka did not a clear head make.
They got settled—her on one side, him on the other. He stared at her funny, like he was waiting for her to say something.
"What do you think of Dimefront?" she asked, breaking the tab on small talk that didn’t have to do with the rainy weather they’d had in Denver lately. "I was really surprised you could get us in here. These things are impossible to get tickets to."
He lifted one eyebrow in that way that people did that required superior forehead muscle control. Honestly, she didn’t quite understand how they did it. She’d tried and never could make it work—always looked like she was about to have a stroke or something.
Then he cracked a broad smile. "Ha. Funny. Good one."
"What do you mean?" she asked, confused.
He stopped, his lips parting in surprise. "Do I like Dimefront?"
She nodded. That was the question. Small talk and all that.
His mouth opened a little, then closed, then opened again before he said, "Well… hell yeah. Sick beats and I understand the guitar player’s pretty good." He paused. "What do you think?"