The bartender is a young woman with beautiful skin and an elegant neck who doesn’t bat an eyelash when I down the bourbon she’s poured me in one go and demand another. She might be the only person in this room I could like.
Then beside me appears a tall form dressed all in black, and I wonder what I did in a previous life to make God hate me so much.
“I’ll have whatever the lady’s having,” says James to the bartender, tilting his head my way.
Not sure if she’s got any extra mental breakdowns lying around, but knock yourself out.
She pours him his drink, then turns her attention to a couple who’ve just walked up, leaving James and me standing there in silence facing the wall with our drinks in our hands.
He smells delicious.
I hadn’t noticed that at the café. Most likely because all my other senses were too scrambled from looking at him to function properly. But now I’ve got his scent in my nose, and it’s just as delicious as the rest of him. The only sensible thing to do is chug the rest of my bourbon, which will sear his smell right out of my nostrils, so I do.
“Hello,” he says after a while, not looking at me.
I debate on a dozen different responses—including bolting from the room—before settling on a reasonably calm sounding, “Hi.”
I couldn’t even manage the two syllables that would be required for hello. This person is not healthy for me to be around.
But I’m a grownup who’s been through much tougher shit than standing beside an attractive man, so after a quick mental pep talk, I speak to Mr. Delicious again.
“So apparently you really are an artist.”
A hint of laughter warms his voice. “Apparently.”
“I hear you’re very talented.”
He turns his head and looks at me. It feels like standing in the sun.
“Are you a fan of the arts?”
“No. Well, yes. I mean, sort of. It depends. Some arts more than others. Cinema. Music. Literature. Those I like. But I don’t know anything about art art. Like you do. Drawing and painting and such.”
He’s silent for a moment, probably wondering just how far advanced my brain cancer is. Then he says, “You don’t like me.”
I finish the rest of my bourbon and set the glass carefully down on the bar. “I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to. That full body cringe of yours is doing the job pretty well.”
“That’s not dislike.”
It’s out before I can retract it, hanging there as dangerous and raw as an open wound.
“No?” says James quietly. “What is it, then?”
Shit. “I…don’t enjoy parties.”
“Hmm. So your obvious discomfort now and at the café yesterday has nothing to do with me.”
He sounds unconvinced. I really hate it when people are too observant. And by “people” I mean men. Why is he just standing there, looking at me?
Seeingme?
I say drily, “You are inconveniently perceptive.”
“I can pretend to be stupid if it will get you to look at me.”
I think about it, aware that I’ve made myself a vow to never again look his way, and also aware of the growing urge to do so. With his lovely smell in my nose and the rich timbre of his voice in my ears, my resolve is quickly crumbling. But I can’t give in without setting some boundaries.
“I’ll look at you if you promise not to ask to draw me or say anything weird about my eyes.”
“Deal,” he says promptly.
That was too easy. “And maybe try to dial down that stare of yours a few thousand notches.”
“Stare? I don’t have a stare.”