Page 22 of Bridesmaid for Hire
What about me? I gave you the cigars and offered you a funny anecdote to share with your cigar-smoking friends later about the weaselly employee who told you trees don’t walk. I guess I’ll take what I can get.
Maggie loops her arm through mine, pulling me back to the present and the apparent girlfriend I now have. Together, we walk into the restaurant and head straight for the bar. I spot a deserted section, the perfect place to have a “what the fuck” conversation.
I lead her over to the corner and then move her in front of the bar counter, pinning her there.
It’s where I get the first full look of her, wearing a tropical print dress crisscrossed at the top in all different ways, giving me peeks of her skin around her stomach, shoulders…and breasts.
Christ.
Then there’s her naturally beach-waved hair that flows all the way down to the middle of her back. She has one side pushed behind her ear with a flower clip holding it in place and her face has minimal makeup, a light coverage so I can still count the freckles across her nose and cheeks. Her hazel eyes are highlighted by a soft brown shimmer, and her lips, the main event, are glossy—just like they were at Gary’s wedding.
“You’re staring,” she says, breaking me out of my thoughts.
“The fuck I am,” I say as I reach for a napkin behind her and press it along my forehead and temple. Fuck…tropical locations are not for me. When I’m done wiping my sweat, I crumble the napkin in my hand. “What the fuck was that back there?”
She crosses her arms over her ample chest. “That was me helping you out.”
“That’s what you consider helping me out?” I ask. “You just made yourself my girlfriend in front of my boss.”
“I’m aware.”
I stare at her. “Why?”
“Uh, isn’t it obvious?”
“No,” I nearly shout.
“You know, this might not be the best place to discuss this.” She glances around. “Don’t want to start a scene.”
I place one hand on the counter behind her and lean forward so only she and I can hear. “I want to know what the hell is going on, because you just made it impossible for me to shake you this week.”
“Trust me, the last thing I want is to be attached to you. It was a tough pill to swallow.”
“Why are you even swallowing it?”
“Don’t guys like it when we swallow?” That know-it-all grin of hers crosses over her lips, the same grin that got me in trouble with her in the first place.
Let me tell you something about Maggie Mitchell. She’s a different kind of girl—oh, sorry,woman.
Unlike any woman I’ve ever met before.
She’s a combination of orderliness, confidence, and warmth. She has no problem saying what’s on her mind, barely possesses any aptitude for embarrassment—I witnessed this when she sang Queen’s “Don’t Stop Me Now” at her brother’s rehearsal dinner. It was off-key, and sometimes she hit notes only dogs could hear. But she also has a helping heart and will go out of her way to make anyone comfortable—well, anyone besides me.
She’s unashamed.
She’s a natural conversationalist.
She has an infectious energy.
But she can also be as cruel as they come when she’s out for blood.
And by the conniving look in her eye, she’s going to be sucking me dry.
Of blood.
Sucking me dry of blood.
Not anything else.
