His thick, dark brow shot up his forehead. “She?”
I nodded. “Margret. But all her friends call her Margie.”
Shaking his head, he took another sip. “A shrub that cost as much as your rent. Jesus. Good to see the real estate business is doing well.”
I was already smiling. A big, goofy, toothy, not-at-all-sexy grin. But that one statement made my mouth stretch so wide it was almost painful. Had Bowen been doing his research on me?
“And how exactly do you know I work in real estate?”
He looked away, lifting a finger for the bartender at the far end of the bar. “Grey Realty, right? Katherine might as well advertise for you in her monthly email. I’ve wondered if you pay her.”
Two things struck me. One, Bowen reads Katherine’s emails—something she would no doubt be giddy over. And two, he had not been doing any kind of research the way my obviously overinflated ego had assumed.
“Well, I don’t.” This wasn’t going at all the way I’d hoped.
“And you certainly won’t be able to now. What with all your rent thwarted for Margo’s adoption.”
“Mar-gret,” I corrected.
He swiped his hands over his face and beard, blowing out an annoyed stream of air.
“Anyway,” I replied, rolling my eyes at myself and buying time to come up with something that might turn the interaction around. “So, do you live around—” I began, but I was interrupted when the bartender stopped in front of us, his gaze flicking between me and Margie.
“What can I…uh, get you?”
Twisting my lips, I debated between a glass of wine or a beer, but Bowen got there first.
“Just my total.”
My head swung his way. “What? Why? You haven’t even finished your drink yet.”
Rising from his stool, he retrieved his wallet with one hand and threw the rest of his drink back with the other.
I had to give him credit. Whatever the room-temperature amber liquid was it could not have been tasty as a shot, but he didn’t make a face as it no doubt scorched his throat.
“Okay, then,” I whispered to myself, the quasi-rejection scorching my throat as well.
His only reply was the sound of the empty glass landing on the bar top.
As he opened his wallet and used his thumb to slide out a credit card, a small worn imprint in the front pocket caught my attention. It didn’t take but a moment for me to recognize the shape. Most men carried condoms or pictures of their families in that little pocket, yet Bowen Michaels, Man of Mystery, carried a safety pin—the very same safety pin he’d given me at the courthouse. What I found the most intriguing was that the pocket was flat. If he cared enough to carry one around with him twenty-four-seven, why hadn’t he replaced it?
I didn’t get the chance to ask before his wallet snapped shut. My head popped up, and I hoped he hadn’t caught me staring.
Finally, luck was on my side. He was looking at the bartender. “I’ll meet you down at the register.”
“Sounds good.” The bartender dried his hands and moseyed to the other end of the bar.
Like a gentleman, Bowen slid his stool up to the bar.
“Well, um, it was nice seeing you again,” I said. “Maybe we’ll run into each other again. It’d be a shame if this became a habit. Maybe next time you won’t be in a hurry.” Disappointed, I slouched and added, “I’ll leave Margret at home. Three’s a crowd.”
“Have a good night, Remi,” he murmured.
“You too,” I told his back as he walked away without another glance.
Well, at least not another glance from him. I watched as he stood at the end of the bar, chatting as he paid. If I wasn’t mistaken, he even smiled once at something the bartender had said. As to be expected, it was just as attractive as he was.
As his long legs carried him out the door, I succumbed to the notion that this wasn’t baseball. Two strikes were more than enough for me. No wonder I liked him. Bowen Michaels, although an interesting character, wasn’t interested in me.
Or so I’d thought.
A glass of white wine landed on the bar in front of me and a bottle of water slid in front of Margret.
“From the gentleman who just left,” the bartender said.
I bit my bottom lip and looked over my shoulder, but Bowen was long gone.
Okay, maybe that hadn’t been a strike after all. Maybe the game hadn’t even started yet.
Bowen
I drove home like a man on the run. White-knuckled, my eyes on the rearview mirror, waiting—and almost wishing—she’d suddenly appear again.
Fucking fuck me. That woman was beautiful.
If she had aimed that smile at me one more time, like a ray of Goddamn sunshine for a man sentenced to the shadows of the moon, I would have lost my mind.
Okay, not true. My mind was long gone.
