Page 8 of Secret Offer
She sighs. “I mean, the massage was fine and all, but he wouldn’t take my number. Says it’s against company policy for employees to date guests. So lame.”
“Maybe it’s for the best,” I say. “You’re more into the rule-breaker type anyway.”
“I know! It’s whatever. Plenty of fish, right?”
“Totally.”
She leans her elbow on the bar, eyes roaming the crowd in search of her next potential conquest. Meanwhile, she’scompletely ignoring the Frooty Fishbowl drink that we ordered to share, which the bartender served us in a round, one-gallon fishbowl filled with some boozy concoction that tastes more like Kool-Aid than alcohol. Even for a themed drink, it’s seriously over the top. Fish-shaped gummy candies float around in the bright blue liquid, and it’s garnished with a maraschino cherry, a pineapple slice, and a few lime wedges. There are also a handful of paper umbrellas, and two straws that look like fishing poles. But Brooke is so busy casing the room that she hasn’t even touched the drink yet, and I’ve barely sipped it either.
I bravely suck down a few swallows and then slide the bowl closer to Brooke.
“It’s your turn,” I tell her, still grimacing at the melted popsicle taste.
She takes a drink, but she’s clearly distracted by someone on the dance floor already. Tracking her gaze, I find a silver fox of a man in a finely tailored linen shirt looking right at her. He’s got to be in his late forties at least, with a sexy layer of stubble on his square jaw, gray hair at his temples, and deep lines in his forehead. The way he holds himself screams confidence. Exactly Brooke’s speed.
“Looks like hot daddy is checking you out,” I tease. “You gonna make a move?”
“Hell yes. I’m going to climb him like a tree. If you hear the ambulance come, it’s because he got a head injury from breaking the bed, I gave him a heart attack, or both.”
It might be funnier if I thought she was kidding.
“Please don’t make me relive our senior year in college when the paramedics showed up at two a.m. because your boyfriend had an anaphylactic reaction to your edible underwear.”
Brooke shrugs, still entirely focused on hot daddy. “That wasn’t my fault. He never said he was allergic to strawberries.”
Taking another sip of the ridiculous drink, I let my eyes roam the patrons of the packed bar, looking for a pair of soulful green eyes. But of course Scowl isn’t here. Boo.
I’ve never been drawn to moody guys, but this was different. He wasn’t just having a bad day. He seemed like he was carrying something heavy on his shoulders. Something real. Something dark. Which I know all too much about, ever since…well. I won’t think about that right now. But I can’t stop wondering what happened to him.
Unless I’m just projecting my own feelings onto the guy, reading too far into that look on his face. I don’t think I am, though. The way he was sitting there all alone, gazing off into the ocean, totally lost in his head even after I started talking to him, it was like he was…haunted. That’s the word.
Maybe it sounds weird, but I like that he didn’t put up a front for me. That he let his scowl be seen, that he was just unapologeticallyhimself. It felt intimate, somehow. Honest. Real. And it made me more comfortable, knowing that he wasn’t trying to act like everything was fine when it so obviously wasn’t. I have to say, I can’t remember the last time a guy I met gave me butterflies like that.
Of course, it didn’t hurt that he was freaking gorgeous. Those striking eyes, the dark hair, the olive skin, and yes, I couldn’t help noticing his body. From what I could see, the man looked shredded.
“—is that cool?”
I whip my head toward Brooke guiltily. “Sorry, what?”
She laughs. “I knew you weren’t listening. Probably daydreaming about baseball stats again. I said I’m going to hit the dance floor, is that cool?”
“Yeah, of course. Good luck with the silver fox.”
“Come with me,” she says, hopping off the bar stool and holding out her hand. “We can dance with each other and make all the guys sweat.”
“I’m good here. Maybe in a bit. Besides, someone has to finish this drink, right?”
With that, I take a huge slurp of the blue drink and flash her a thumbs up. Seeming satisfied that I’m not going to sit here feeling sorry for myself, Brooke swans away from the bar and starts dancing with some random cute guy, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. She whispers something in his ear, laughs, and then makes a point to lead him deeper into the crowd—conveniently close to the older man, giving her true target a clear view of her dancing with someone else.
I wonder if Brooke’s attempt to make hot daddy jealous will work as well as it usually does on guys our age. I’d think someone older, with more experience, wouldn’t take the bait. But as I watch him lock his gaze onto my best friend and the dude she’s grinding on, I start to wonder if Brooke’s method is worth a little more consideration. Maybe men don’t like it if you’re too direct, too friendly, too open. Maybe you really do have to play the game to get a guy interested.
Which means I went about my lunch not-date all wrong. Which means I probably won’t hear from Scowl ever again. Pulling the fishbowl closer, I make another brave attempt at sucking down the beverage. The ice is starting to melt, which means it’s going to take even longer to drink all the liquid. I’m also seriously questioning if it even has any alcohol in it. I should feel at least a tiny buzz by now.
And then my phone vibrates with a text.
My adrenaline spikes as I see the unfamiliar area code in the sender’s number.
Enjoying happy hour?
