She’s already attracted to me, that much I can deduce. The way her eyes skim over me, the way her gaze lingers on my mouth, the way she touches her hair when she thinks I’m not looking. The way she rolls her eyes when she laughs.
Fight as she may, she wants me.
And we haven’t even exchanged names.
“You say that with such conviction.” She squints. “But you couldn’t be more wrong. I’ve never hated anyone in my life.”
“Liar.”
I focus on her bee-stung mouth, wondering how her lips would taste between my teeth, and when she reaches for her glass, I steal a glimpse of her legging-covered thighs, imagining her cashmere skin beneath my palms.
“Life’s too short to hate anyone.” She shrugs. “Plus, you get what you give, you know? If you go around hating people all the time, they’re going to hate you right back.”
“And what’s wrong with that?”
“Everything.” Her words are breath-filled and certain.
“You have no idea how freeing it is to not give a damn what anyone thinks of you. You could tell me you hate me and I won’t feel a thing. I’ll go home and sleep like a baby.”
She squints. “I don’t believe you.”
I sip my drink and face forward. “I don’t need you to.”
“Deep down you want to be liked, loved, whatever. But you’re scared. So you wear this asshole suit of armor that makes everyone immediately detest you because then you’re in control. You get to decide if someone likes you or not.”
I flag down the bartender, lifting my empty tumbler. “What makes you think that?”
“Because nobody is this awful in real life.” She reaches for another drink, giving me side-eye. “And I refuse to believe you’re as awful as you’d like people to believe.”
“Do you charge by the hour for this? Thought we were just a couple of strangers sharing a drink. Didn’t realize you’ve been psychoanalyzing me this entire time.”
“I’m sorry but this thing you do, it’s a defense mechanism. Lots of people do it. And in my experience, the harder someone is on the outside, the softer they are on the inside.” She offers a humble shrug but wears a buoyant smirk on that fuckable mouth.
She thinks she has me figured out.
She couldn’t be more wrong.
“In my experience, playing armchair psychologist is a complete fucking waste of time.” I burst her bubble.
“Can’t help it. It’s what I do.” Her eyes glint, the palest marbled blue, and she bites her lower lip to stave off a smile. “I find people fascinating.”
“You find me fascinating?”
“People in general,” she corrects. “Which, I guess if you want to get technical, you fall into that category.”
“Why did you really come here tonight?” I change the subject because the magnetism between us is clearly intensifying and it’s time to stop playing around. I was screwing with her earlier when I accused her of coming here to ‘fish’ for men, but I’m beginning to suspect I wasn’t that far off. She’s a gorgeous woman alone in a popular hookup bar on a perfectly good Saturday night, entertaining flirtations from a man who hasn’t even bothered to get her name.
“Why does it matter?”
“It’s just a question.”
She lifts a shoulder. “Wanted to get out of my apartment. This place is within walking distance. You?”
“Was supposed to meet a friend for drinks.”
“She stand you up?”
“Never said it was a female friend.”
Her gaze falls to her napkin.
It’s too dim in the bar to tell if she’s blushing, but I can only assume.
I take this as confirmation that things are absolutely headed in the right direction.
I trace my fingertips across the top of her knee. “Have to say … I can’t remember the last time I had a real conversation with anyone here.”
It’s a lame move and an even lamer line, but all I can think about is taking her home, and my impatience is getting the best of me.
She peers at me through a fringe of dark lashes before her gaze falls to my hand. “You’re not as smooth as you think you are, Casanova.”
A moment later, her palm rests over mine, and she returns my hand with the gentleness of an angelic virgin.
“You’re right.” I toss my hands in the air for half of a second. “It’s just another one of my … acts.”
Her drink is almost finished. Judging by the sullen turn our conversation has taken, a fourth is likely out of the question.
“Will you excuse me for a second?” She slides off her bar stool, hooks her purse over her shoulder, and heads to the back of the bar, leaving her coat to hold her spot.
I sip my vodka and watch as she bumps into the owner’s daughter on her way. Ophelia DeGrasse is one of those people who can talk to you once and the next time you run into her, it’s like catching up with an old friend.
Also, she exclusively dates women.
Either she’s merely being friendly with my ray-of-fucking-sunshine because they know each other … or she’s hitting on her.
Hard to tell from all the way over here, but I suppose it doesn’t matter because I’m sure as hell not getting ass from her tonight.
I knew better than to make a move so soon. I should’ve kept the conversation going. Feigned interest in getting to know more about her. But the Russian liquor coursing through my veins has evidently thrown me off my game and my impatience got the best of me.
My effervescent, out-of-reach bubbly blonde disappears into the ladies’ room.
I order water and text my driver.
I refuse to sit here wallowing in rejection when I’ve got dozens of women in my phone who would Uber to my place in a heartbeat if I said the word.
I’m half-finished with my water by the time she comes back. Clearing her throat, she takes a seat and tosses back the rest of her drink. We sit in silence over the longest two minutes of my life before she turns to me.
“You haven’t even asked my name,” she says.
“What?”
“You’ve been flirting with me all night, buying me drinks. You put your hand on my knee. And you’ve yet to ask my name.”
“I don’t need to.”
Her eyes catch on mine and she studies me. “Ah. So you already know it.”
I smirk. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I should go.” She slides off her seat. “Thanks for the drinks.”
My phone lights with a text from my driver.
He’s almost here.
I rise, slip my phone into my pocket, swipe my jacket, toss some cash on the counter, and head outside first.
God forbid she thinks I’m following her.
I’ve never chased after a woman in my life. I’m not about to start now.
I stand beneath a black awning, my breath turning to milky January clouds under a clear blue-black sky.
Sliding my phone out, I decide to check my work email while I wait for my ride. With it being a Saturday, I’m not met with anything urgent, and I’m about to close out of the app when I spot a reply email from Anonymous Stranger.
My thumb hovers above the delete button for half of a second before I decide to see what this audacious person has to say this time. Because I’ve never believed in letting anyone get the last word (and because I’m cheaply entertained by these exchanges), I fully intend to respond the next chance I get.