The sound of someone clearing his throat distracts me from my inspection and that’s when I realize that I’ve been staring—way too hard and for way too long. I jerk my gaze away. But that only makes it more obvious that I’ve been caught gawking like some hormone-riddled teenager, instead of behaving like the twenty-nine-year-old woman I actually am.
None of this is a good omen for my grand plan tonight. Clearly, I’m terrible at this whole picking-up-a-guy-in-a-bar thing, which probably explains why I’ve never done it before.
It also doesn’t help that this isn’t really a bar. But the restaurant is just across the street from the hotel where I’m staying, and I figure if there are barstools and a happy hour menu, then that’s good enough. My current cash situation isn’t pretty, so I can’t afford to drive around wasting a bunch of gas just to find a “real” bar. I barely have enough in my wallet to cover the greasy appetizer and the sickly-sweet rum cocktail I ordered.
But no matter what, the whole reason I’m here trying to pick up a guy is because I need this. An indulgence. Something—or someone—to make me feel a little better about how crappy the last few weeks of my life have been, which included getting laid off from my job and finding out that my boyfriend was cheating on me. On top of all that, I’ve also lost my creative muse.
That’s been the worst part because painting is my refuge. In front of a canvas I’m always in charge of my own destiny, so even when real life is full of moments that fall short, in my artistic life, I always find a way.
Until now.
For weeks now, my creative gas tank has been totally empty and I’ve found myself desperate for the safe haven painting has always provided. Unfortunately, finding my art professor boyfriend all in flagrante delicto with his current TA—atop one of the tables in my studio—had made it difficult to see anything else in my mind’s eye.
And I am so over that. All I want to do is replace that not-so-pleasant sexual image with one of my own making. Tonight, I’m hoping.
Ideally, the next few hours involve a man just like the one sitting next to me, the two of us working through my artistic funk with some sweaty, naked antics. A rush of artistic productivity almost always follows great sex for me. And based on the outline of his upper body in the fitted t-shirt he’s wearing, I can already imagine the ways he might use his strength and stamina to help me get my mojo back.
“So, are you going to try that thing or what?”
His low, rumbling voice interrupting my thoughts only adds to the picture in my head. So much that I have to shake my imagination free before sliding my gaze up to meet his. He cocks a brow at me.
“If so,” he continues, “I’d get after it. Those things don’t improve at room temperature. You probably have about two more minutes before it becomes inedible.”
I have to fight the urge to announce that I couldn’t care less about the appetizer. When it comes to food, I generally avoid anything with ingredients I can’t pronounce. It’s a carryover from my childhood, which was spent in what most outsiders would call a hippie commune. My family grew almost all of our own food and we rarely ate out. Even when we did, we never came to a place like this. So the greasy onion ball was chosen for one reason only: to serve as man-bait. But given the look this guy currently has on his face, it seems I haven’t selected my bait well.
I stare down the plate and give up an exaggerated sigh. The things a woman will do to get laid.
“Here goes, then,” I mutter. “You’re only a virgin once, right?”
He lets out a surprised snort. I sneak a look his way and find that he’s turned to face me, a sly smirk tugging up one side of his mouth.
Good grief.
This guy is too attractive. Traditionally good-looking—like the dreamy doctor on some TV show—but with a touch of something smoldering and moody in his eyes. As if he’s perfectly put-together on the outside but a little bit broken on the inside. An honest sort of brokenness, though, the kind that doesn’t need to be fixed or fussed over.
And just like that, I’m staring at him again.
Except this time, the experience isn’t one-sided. His eyes are on me, too. Amused, curious, and a little hesitant. Then his gaze sharpens and he looks… decided. Like he knows exactly how I want this night to end.
A thrill chases up my spine. If I didn’t know that I’m not in the market for anything but a simple one-night stand, I’d swear there was something more here.
But aside from wanting a man to help me get my muse talking again, I’m determined to stay totally, absolutely, and unequivocally single for the foreseeable future. Because those uncomfortable days after walking away from my ex were like breaking the surface of the ocean after being underwater for too long. Suddenly, I could breathe again. That made it clear that somewhere along the way, I’d lost track of myself and what I needed. So it’s time to focus on me for a while. My life, my art, and my future.
Remembering that is enough to give me some confidence. I give him a small smile, and then pluck off a deep-fried onion petal, dunking it in the dipping sauce. I pop it in my mouth and before I even have a chance to swallow, I realize why he looked at the plate the way he did. Because the taste defies all logic—somehow managing to be both bland and salty. I try to chase away both by taking a long sip of my rum punch, which basically amounts to sucking corn syrup through a straw.
I narrow my eyes on the confusing concoction in front of me.
“It doesn’t even taste like an onion. How does that happen? I mean, it’s an onion. But this is like some onion-less onion.”
He gives up a low chuckle. “One of the world’s great mysteries, I guess. Like Stonehenge.”
“And what happened to Amelia Earhart,” I mutter, still staring at the onion mystery.
“Don’t forget D.B. Cooper,” he says. I can hear a grin in his words, so I cut a look his way as he continues. “Two hundred thousand dollars and a parachute. Did he hit the ground and never get up? Or did he make it and then lived out his golden years somewhere along the Pacific?”
I let a smirk curl my lips, humming a little as I pretend to consider the question.
“Maybe it’s wrong, but I hope he made it. I get that he hijacked a plane, but it was a ton of money. Who hasn’t been so broke that they’d do just about anything to avoid ending up back at their parents’ house, right?”
I laugh a little, fully expecting him to play along so we can keep this going. Instead his face falls, shuttering into something distant and cold. Before I can figure out what I said to cause that, I hear my cell phone beeping from inside my purse. I grab my bag from the back of the barstool.
The new text is a continuation of my earlier exchange with Tara. An hour ago, I texted my best friend to proclaim that I was venturing out to see if I could cure my funk by finding someone to spend the night with. Right after entering the restaurant, I spotted the aftershave model, so I sent Tara a quick follow-up that was something to the effect of arm the lasers. Tara then demanded details. I bided my time until aftershave guy’s friend left, then fired off a short but sweet reply to Tara.
* * *
Tattoos. So many tattoos.
* * *
That’s it? Tattoos? That’s all the info you’re giving me? When you mysteriously disappear, THAT’S the description I’m supposed to give the police?