The Killers play from speakers in the ceiling and a group of middle-aged men with slicked hair and expensive suits order a round of tequila shots.
I don’t bother scanning the room in search of Garrett, I head straight for Eduardo at the bar, cashing in my verbal coupon in exchange for a top-shelf gin and tonic, and then I help myself to a handful of pretzels because I haven’t eaten since eleven o’clock today.
Ten minutes later, warmth rushes through me.
My breathing steadies, no longer hitching and uneven.
My shoulders thaw, allowing me to melt comfortably into my seat.
Two spots down, a handsy couple clink martini glasses.
The table of suits and ties are enjoying dark lagers now.
Three women, all dressed in their office casual best, commiserate over bright-colored drinks at a high-top to my left. To my right is an empty stool.
The clock above the door reads six twenty-seven. It would seem I am, in fact, being stood up.
Be careful what you wish for …
“Can I get one more of these?” I lift my glass when Eduardo checks on me.
Tonight I’ll drink to Trevor—to his memory, to what might have been.
A minute later, my old drink is replaced. I don’t particularly like gin and tonics, but they were always Trevor’s go-to. He was never into IPAs or craft beers or Jager-bombs-with-the-guys. And he hated anything remotely sweet. He appreciated the hell out of a nice, top-shelf classic—which was fitting because he was a nice, top-shelf classic.
My eyes begin to burn, but I force it away.
I told myself I wouldn’t cry today.
Lord knows I’ve done more than enough of that over the past twelve months.
Taking a sip, my attention is hijacked by a frigid burst of air that sweeps through the bar and the floor-shaking shudder that follows when the door slams.
Glancing over my shoulder, I spot a dark-haired man, easily six feet tall. He retracts his rain-slicked umbrella and leans it against the wall before stalking toward the bar, and then he steals the last spot on the end—five places down from me, hanging his wool trench coat over the seat back before sitting.
Eduardo greets him, wiping the section in front of him with a clean towel, half hunched over and nodding in quick succession.
I wait until the Eduardo returns with the man’s drink—which appears to be a triple shot of straight vodka over two perfect squares of ice in an old-fashioned tumbler—before appropriating a closer look at the mystery man.
Through the shadowy haze of Ophelia’s, my unfocused gaze struggles to home in at first. And then I see him perfectly.
Chiseled cheekbones.
Impeccably-groomed obsidian hair.
Broad shoulders hardly contained in a navy cashmere sweater.
Jawline for days.
Could this be …?
Is that Mrs. Angelino’s nephew?
I take a generous mouthful of gin and tonic, contemplating how best to introduce myself. My palms tingle, and I rub them against the tops of my thighs, sucking in a shallow breath.
There’s a chance this man isn’t Garrett, and the more I think about it, he likely isn’t. I’ve yet to catch him scanning the room in search of someone.
But still—if it is him, I’d hate for him to think he’s being stood up. I would never do that to anyone, for any reason. My life’s mantra can be boiled down to the whole “do unto others …” saying.
Clearing my throat, I lean in his direction. “Excuse me?”
He doesn’t hear me.
Waving my hand to capture his attention, I say it again, “Hi. Excuse me.”
Still, nothing.
It’s like he’s in his own world—ten feet away.
The friendly, kindergarten-teacher smile teetering on my poppy-stained lips fades with the realization that I’m being ignored.
“Hi, excuse me …” Third time’s the charm. I wave once more, wiggling my fingers the way you’d politely flag down a restaurant server.
The man turns to his left, dark brows knit together and gaze tightened in my direction—and then he does the craziest thing: lifting his finger to his lips, he shushes me.
He. Shushes. Me.
Like a child.
Facing ahead, I take another drink, the glass trembling in my hand as a cocktail of thoughts swarm my head. The mirror behind the bar catches my reflection, and it isn’t pretty, but this time it has nothing to do with the damp, wiry, dishwater-blonde bun or the bar bathroom makeover.
Basic human decency is the one thing I value most in this world, and this man has none of it.
The full weight of his piercing stare anchors me to my seat, and every atom in my body is shouting for me to stay, to not march ten feet down the bar to give him a piece of my mind.
But today marks the anniversary of one of the worst days of my life, I was caught in a rainstorm and stood up, and I’m about two cocktails deep.
My self-control is non-existent.
Drink in hand, I slide off my seat and saunter toward the infuriatingly handsome asshole in the five-hundred-dollar sweater, but before I have a chance to utter a single word, he speaks first, “You seem incredibly insecure about something. Are you okay?”
“Excuse me?” I’m glaring, and I never glare. This isn’t good. This man’s about to bring out a side of me I never knew existed. And what the hell is he talking about? Insecure? “What kind of—”
“—what kind of asshole bothers a stranger for no reason?” he commandeers my question like he owns it. “Let me ask you this, when you saw me come in, saw me take a seat at the end of the bar away from everyone, what part of that gave you the impression that I wanted to be bothered?”
The man has a point—especially if he isn’t Garrett.
But it still doesn’t make him any less of a prick.
“I wasn’t trying to bother you, I was—”
“Really?” His full lips tug into a taut smirk, his tone as sharp as it is incredulous. “Because I’m pretty sure when you were waving at me and smiling and saying ‘Hi, excuse me’ in that cutesy little voice fifty thousand times … you were trying to bother me.”
“Are you always this cruel?”
“Are you always this desperate?” He doesn’t miss a beat.
My grip tightens on my glass. I’d love nothing more than to dump the remainder of this drink down his pretentious designer sweater.
Lucky for him that isn’t my style.
Besides, it’d be a shame to waste all that top-shelf liquor on a bottom-shelf bastard.
“For your information, I was supposed to meet someone here tonight. Someone fitting your description,” I say.
His jaw sets.
He takes a sip of his drink staring ahead, flashing a smirk that advertises a perfect dimple in the middle of his cheek. “Sure you were.”
“What, you think this is something I do to meet men?” My voice is pitched higher than I intended.
“You said it.” His brows rise as he centers his drink on a coaster.
“Don’t flatter yourself. You’re not my type.”
He sniffs. “I’m everyone’s type.”
I’m … speechless.
Is this jerk for real?!
Not only is this vexatious stranger cruel, heartless, and lacking in basic human decency, he’s also the epitome of arrogant.
“You can leave now.” He waves me off, but I’m stunned into silence as I try to gather my thoughts so I can leave him with one last zinger of a comeback.