Page 45 of You Make Me Feel
SADIE
Once the meeting is over, I have no choice but to walk to the bar. Because liars always pay the price, and apparently pretending I’m unaffected by Zach and out on the hunt means pushing through clusters of businessmen and date-night couples, acting like I belong.
One drink and I’ll go home. Without looking like the loser I so obviously am. At least Zach has slunk off to his lair and isn’t here to witness any humiliation.
There’s one empty table tucked in the far corner, thankfully. I slide into the chair and grab the cocktail menu, lifting it up to study it like it’s a piece of literary genius.
Before I can even decide what to drink, a waiter appears beside me, smiling like he understands I don’t want to be here.
“Good evening, ma’am. Are you ready to order?” he asks.
“Yes please. I’ll have a vodka tonic,” I tell him, decidingthat the cocktails will all take too long. A vodka tonic is easy – the kind of drink you can finish fast if you’re ready to leave because you’ve made your point.
He nods and walks away, and I let my gaze drift around the room. The room hums with low conversation and the clink of glass against marble. Someone laughs near the bar, and it feels like everybody is having a good time except me.
For a moment I feel an unmistakable prickle along the back of my neck, like I’m being watched.
Buthe’snot here. I know that. He doesn’t give a damn about me or my evening plans. And that’s a good thing.
Because I’m not getting attached to a man who has no idea how to attach himself.
I take out my phone for something to do. And to be fair, I didn’t lie about the app. There really is one. I downloaded it a couple of days ago. I swipe it open, the soft glow of my phone lighting the table. A few new profiles flash up. Men with masks, tattoos, and smirks that promise things I’m not sure I’m ready for. One is shirtless, holding a rope. But none of them are wearing a suit. Or a collared shirt, open at the neck, smirking like he’s god’s gift to women.
I tell myself this is a good thing. I don’t need somebody likehim.
But I also don’t want anybody who isn’t him. God, that is so annoying.
The waiter brings my drink and I take a sip, just as a thirty-something businessman approaches my table. He has his jacket still on, but his tie is gone, his white and blue striped shirt unfastened one button too far.
He runs his hand through his slicked-back blond hair and without asking, he pulls out the chair next to me and sits down too close.
“A beautiful lady like you shouldn’t be drinking alone,” he says, smiling like I should feel grateful for his attention.
I shift my chair backward. “Shouldn’t I?” I murmur. “And who says I’m not waiting for somebody?” I add, because apparently, I only like being hunted when I give my permission.
But of course he doesn’t get the message. Instead, he leans forward and touches my hair and I immediately flinch. What the hell? Who does that without asking?
“Is this red natural?” he murmurs. “It’s so vibrant.” He winks. “It’d look great on my pillow. I’m staying here at the hotel.” He looks stupidly proud of that. Like I should take him seriously because he can afford a room here.
I shake my head, pulling my hair from his grasp. Now my heart is racing for all the wrong reasons. This isn’t okay. It really isn’t.
I open my mouth to tell him that, but nothing comes out. He’s still smirking, the asshole. And now I’m going to have to wash my hair tonight.
“The lady isn’t interested,” a low voice says. I don’t even have to look to know who it belongs to. It’s weird but I immediately feel my body relax.
I’ll think about the implications of that another time.
“Fuck off, man,” the smirker says. “I was here first.”
Before the last word escapes his mouth, he’s being lifted out of his seat by the front of his shirt. “This isn’t preschool.” Zach doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to. His size and that quiet, cold anger do the job.
I hold my breath as his hands tighten around the man’s collar. The smile slides from the smirker’s face. Looks like he doesn’t like being touched without his permission either.
Who knew?
“You lay a finger on her again without her permission, you won’t be able to use that hand,” he says, his tone smooth as glass. “Now apologize to the pretty woman and walk away.”
The smirker mutters something that sounds a little like ‘sorry’, eyes darting to me. Before I can reply he bolts toward the exit. The bar’s noise swells again, like nothing happened. Zach watches him leave before he slowly turns his head to look at me.
