Ugh. I didn’t want to dwell on the distancing lecture he’d delivered down in the hotel room. I didn’t want to get all depressed again. Take a drink, lift your chin, be normal. I looked around at the other bar patrons. What did they do at their jobs? This was New York City, the land of endless opportunities. If I was going to find a real job, I’d have to get on the ball soon. I was pushing thirty, for God’s sake.
I took a big swig of my drink, wanting to quiet my stresses and regrets, wanting to quiet every thought and feeling. Hell, I wanted to get so wasted I could barely stumble back to my hotel room. I was just signaling the bartender for another Old Fashioned when the man next to me turned around and looked at me. His generous mouth tilted up in a smile.
“An Old Fashioned girl, huh?” He studied me more closely. “Wait, do I know you?”
I always freaked out when men asked, “Do I know you?” because my first thought was always, is he a former client? But on closer inspection, I knew he wasn’t. I would have remembered those eyes. They were big and expressive, and looked brown at first, until he leaned closer and I realized they were a very, very dark hazel that looked nice with his curly black hair. He wasn’t model-gorgeous, or hyper-masculine like W, but he was attractive in a friendly kind of way.
I needed friendly, so I smiled and said, “I don’t think I know you. Maybe we live in the same neighborhood or something.”
“Lower Manhattan? Tribeca?”
After playing twenty questions, we figured out that we did live pretty close to each other.
“So what are you doing here?” he asked. “Cocktail after work?”
I almost choked on my drink. Yes, this was essentially a cocktail after work, but I wasn’t going to tell him that. “I was supposed to meet a friend here,” I said, “but she flaked out on me.” Already with the lies. I gestured down at my get-up. “I came out anyway since I was already dressed.”
“Why waste a great dress?” he agreed, giving my outfit the appreciative once-over that W had so angrily withheld.
Ah, he was charming. He had a bit of a Mediterranean look, the way I pictured W before I met him. Actually, he looked a lot like Simon—yes, Simon, remember him, Chere? Your boyfriend?—but I could tell this guy was nothing like Simon. He wasn’t artsy and haunted by demons and complicated. He was clean-cut and well-adjusted, a businessman probably. An ad account exec or something. Maybe a lawyer, for the prosecution, not the defense.
“Are you having a cocktail after work?” I asked, indicating his dark suit and patterned tie.
“Yes. Well, I’m celebrating with some people from work. We nailed down a huge account today, closed out the books—”
He interrupted himself, jabbing a finger in the air.
“And I’m not going to talk about work, because it’s boring, and I’m an accountant, and I try to forget it when I’m in a situation like this.”
“When you’re on the roof of the Gansevoort?” I joked.
“No. When I’m talking to a beautiful woman who’s not looking over my shoulder and planning her exit strategy.”
“You know, I can plan exit strategies without looking over your shoulder. I mean, with eye contact and everything.” I held his gaze and smiled. “Some of us are that good.”
He gripped his chest, the universal gesture for you wound me. I took the opportunity to check for a ring. Was it possible he was just a normal single guy having a celebratory drink with some coworkers?
A couple of them sidled up, right on cue. He introduced them to me. One was Vince, an older dude with a comb over—the absolute visual of an accountant—and the other was Randy. And they were nice, and all of this was so nice, and I felt like I could have wrapped myself up in this nice normalcy and lived like this for the rest of my life.
“Vince and Randy were great,” I said, after his coworkers left us. “But I don’t know your name.”
He seemed so pleased that I’d asked. “It’s Tony. Tony Pavone.”
No secrecy, no mind games, just the offer of his name. I wanted to kiss him for it. Tony and Pavone rhymed, and he was Italian, and he signaled the bartender casually, not like an asshole, and ordered me another drink. “What’s your name?” he asked.
“Chere.” Chere, who shouldn’t be talking to you, because she has a drugged-out, failed artist boyfriend, and bamboo welts all over the backs of her thighs. “Chere Rouzier.”
“And what do you do for a living, Chere Rouzier? Nothing so boring as accounting, I hope.”
“I’m a…consultant. Physical therapy. Physical therapy consultant.” I had no idea if such a thing existed. I headed off any further questioning by saying, “But we shouldn’t talk about work. I need a night where I don’t think about work.”