Page 8 of Let's Kiss and Tell

“Research?” My brows lift.

“I’m a writer,” she clarifies and I wonder if she writes forThe Journalor if this is a surprising coincidence. “One of my stories is about finding a date organically, and what’s more organic than meeting someone at a bar?”

“A grocery store?” I offer. “A dog park? Through a fri—”

“Okay,smart-ass.” She places the record in her hand back on the shelf. “I didn’t say a bar was my only option.”

“What does your research entail?” I ask, perpetually curiousabout other writers’ processes. “Do you wait for someone to pick you up or do you go around eavesdropping?”

“MaybeI’mthe one picking someone up.” She shrugs.

“So that’s what this is.” I cross my arms and lean against the wooden shelf next to us. “Asking about Michael Jackson is a foolproof pickup line if you ask me.”

“So, what doyoudo?” Lucy crosses her arms, mirroring my pose against the shelf.

Out of my control, Lucy’s movement causes my gaze to quickly move down to a flash of skin. While it was barely a fraction of a second, I notice a display of cleavage under her tank top that I wish I didn’t see.

I look away as fast as I can. “Uh, I’m also a writer. Sort of in between jobs right now.”

“A fancy way to say unemployed,” she says.

“Ouch.”

Lucy tries her best to conceal a smile. “I’m kidding! What do you write?”

“I’m actually trying to do this thing where I don’t talk about work all the time.”

“Oh, you’re a workaholic,” Lucy says like she’s psychoanalyzing me.

“When you say it like that, it sounds like a bad thing.”

“Marsh, you’re talking to someone who is at a bar on a Friday night and whose instinct is to doresearch.”

“Touché,” I say with a laugh. This conversation is going well. It’s one of the few conversations I’ve had lately that doesn’t revolve around current events making headlines. Maybe that’s a good sign. There’s a moment of silence between us as the bass of the music pulses under my feet. Lucy’s beautiful. There’s no denying that. She has the kind of beauty that’s completely natural. Like she belongs in an early ’90s movie. Shockingly, her looks are only20 percent of the reason why I want to keep talking to her. There’s an infectious energy to Lucy. She’s quick and seems engaged with whatever I have to say. “I was thinking of getting another drink.” I hold up my borderline empty beer bottle. “Can I get you anything?”

“Yeah, why not?” She grins. “Are you sure you can afford it? You know, without a job and all?”

“You’re funny.” I roll my eyes and lead the way through the crowd of people. I wave down a bartender and hold up my drink. “Another beer, and…” I look at Lucy.

“Martini,” she says, and our gazes stay on each other a moment longer than they should. “Extra dirty.”

I turn back to the bartender. “And a martini, extra dirty please.”

“I don’t have cash on me,” Lucy says when I turn with both our drinks in hand.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Next time it’s on me.” She takes her drink and pops an olive into her mouth.

“That’s not necessary,” I reiterate, because I already know there won’t be anexttime.I’ve never seen this woman before, and I doubt I will after tonight.

We walk toward the corner of the bar where we surprisingly find a vacant tabletop. When we take our seats, I notice that Lucy smells like some kind of berry.

“So, what’s your deal, Marsh?” Lucy leans back in her chair, eyeing me from head to toe. I actively try to think of what I’m wearing without glancing down at myself. Jeans, sneakers, and a feathered white T-shirt. I guess that feels okay.

“My deal?” I repeat.

“Yeah,” she says, another one of those smiles sweeping across her face. There’s a wicked twinkle in her eye like we’re about to play a round of truth or dare and she’s the one who’s going to beasking the questions. “You know, hometown, mother’s maiden name, social security number, your biggest fear, your hopes and dreams.”