Page 3 of Tempt
“You won’t actually be able to spot it, but judging by the rest of him, it will bestrongly implied.”
Laughing, I held the dress against my body and looked in the mirror. “I guess I could go down and get a drink. But no promises about a one-night stand.”
“I’m not asking for a promise. I’m just asking that you try being a little less predictable, and a little more adventurous. Plot twists are fun.”
I felt myself caving. Maybe Winnie was right. “Okay, I’ll go down to the bar and see if a plot twist catches my eye.”
“Good. Butnopuppies!”
* * *
Half an hour later, I walked into the dimly lit bar off the lobby of the small, upscale hotel where I was staying. I’d chosen not to stay at the huge hotel where the expo was being held because by the end of the day, I was done with people and really craved peace, quiet, and a paperback. I also liked to check out more intimate, boutique hotels whenever I traveled, since Cloverleigh Farms was also a small inn and I loved seeing what other places were doing.
I particularly liked the cozy, elegant bar here—its low lighting from vintage brass wall sconces and fringed table lamps, its fern-colored walls and ceiling, the emerald-green leather and brass barstools, the moss-green velvet banquettes along the wall. The vibe was sort of Emerald City meets Restoration Hardware, and I was a sucker for anything with a whiff of a 1920s speakeasy, especially with Amy Winehouse on the speakers.
The place was busy—was I the only person under eighty that went to bed before ten on a Thursday night?—but I spotted one empty barstool and made my way toward it, conscious of eyes that followed me. I wasn’t mad about it. I’d curled my long blond hair and given myself a smoky eye. My black dress clung to my plentiful curves, and while it wasn’t short or low-cut, it was one-shouldered with a slit on one side that showed some leg. And I was wearing a shade of lipstick called Red Carpet, which you shouldn’t really wear if you just want to blend into the wallpaper.
Most days, I was confident in my plus-sized body, although it had taken me a while to embrace it. But once I stopped trying to please other people and learned to love the body I was born into, I’d felt so much relief, and much more at ease in my skin.
Did I always love my thick thighs and rounded belly? No. Did I sometimes get annoyed that shopping was so much easier for my smaller-sized sisters and friends? Yep. Did I secretly feel sort of glad that even Winnie had cellulite that showed when she wore a bathing suit? Maybe.
Okay, yes.
But I admitted it to her, and we both laughed about it.
I certainly remained aware that there would always be people who thought I needed to lose weight to be healthy (not true), who assumed I thought pizza was a vegetable (I have a much better relationship with food now than Ieverdid starving myself to be a ballerina), and never exercised (I work out regularly and enjoy it). But mostly, I just think there are some people who envy the fact that I can cross the room in a badass tight black dress and feel good about myself, even if I don’t meet their narrow beauty ideals.
Fuck those people. That’s their insecurity talking, not mine.
I reached the empty barstool and slid onto it, setting my clutch on the smooth, mahogany bar. The bartender, a twenty-something with a handlebar mustache, approached me with a smile. “What can I get for you?”
“I’d like a vodka martini, please. Grey Goose, with a twist.”
He nodded and set a cocktail napkin in front of me. “Lemon or tangerine?”
Lemon was on the tip of my tongue—my usual choice—but I answered differently. Lemon was the hamster wheel. Tangerine was a plot twist. “Tangerine,” I said with a smile.
“You got it.”
Although I was tempted to take out my phone, I didn’t. It’s what I normally would have done, and I wanted to invite a different kind of energy tonight. Maybe by changing a couple small things, I could change my luck.
I watched the bartender shake my drink, pour it into a glass, add the twist. Then I gave him a smile when he placed it in front of me. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure. Enjoy.”
I was just lifting the glass to my lips when I noticed someone sitting around the curve of the bar to the left. He was broad through the chest and shoulders, wore a black dress shirt with the cuffs rolled up, and sat alone. His hair and beard were short and dark. Our eyes met and my body grew warm. His bone structure was beautiful—his face looked like it was chiseled from granite. He held my gaze for a moment then looked away, and I did as well, focusing on the first cold sips of my martini.
But in seconds, my eyes were drawn to him again, and I noticed the hand holding his glass—wide palm, long, solid fingers, thick wrist. I indulged in a brief and magnificent fantasy that involved those hands in my hair, his beard against my cheek, that brawny chest bare and warm above me. Was it hairy? I’d bet yes. He looked like a man’s man. My nipples tingled inside the bustier I wore beneath my dress.
Once more he caught me staring, and I realized too late that I was actuallybiting my lip.
Gawd.
I looked down at the bar, glad it was dark in there—my cheeks had to be flushed pink. Telling myself to be cool, I sipped my drink and concentrated on minding my own business. But I got antsy and self-conscious, and after a couple minutes of listening to other people’s conversations—which mostly involved a lot of swearing about the weather and canceled flights—I pulled my phone from my clutch. I had a couple texts from my sister.
So how’s it going?
Any plot twists on the horizon?
