His sleeves are pulled to mid-forearm and well… he’s got great forearms, which I hate that I notice. Just as I hate to see his black sweater makes his eyes seem more golden than usual, and it fits in such a way there’s no mistaking his muscular physique I’d suspected was beneath those well-tailored suits.
“Appropriate for what?” I ask, referring to my state of dress, which is apparently unsatisfactory.
“We’re going out tonight.” I go slack-jawed at the notion. Whatever my exact expression is has Carrick grimacing. “Relax, Miss Porter. This isn’t a date. I want to test your abilities in a crowd now that Zaid has seemingly gotten you past your block.”
Indignantly, I straighten. “I would have never thought it was a date,” I exclaim haughtily. “Besides… I’m already dating someone.”
Well, not really.
But, as of Saturday, that will be true.
Carrick merely shrugs and steps into the elevator, pushing the button that will drop us to the lobby. He stands a little too close for comfort, and I hate how good he smells. I wouldn’t say he’s wearing cologne, but he smells like woods and spice, and…
I take a subtle step to the right to put some distance between us. Proximity to this man is too disconcerting, and even though he is the same man who has provided me with an incredible opportunity to buy One Bean and given me the truth about myself—alleviating me of the burden of mental instability—I still can’t help but believe him to be dangerous and untrustworthy.
I vow to never forget that.
“For future purposes,” I mutter as the doors open on the first floor, “I would have worn something different had you merely asked and made me aware of your plans.”
“Noted,” he clips out, then strides from the elevator.
I have no choice but to follow.
* * *
Carrick takes us to a restaurant in Belltown that has an extensive bar already filled with happy-hour drinkers. Its industrial decor is cool, giving it a bit of a laid-back atmosphere and the crowd is fairly diverse. Some people are dressed semi-professionally as if they perhaps just got off work and stopped in for a meal or drink before heading home. Some are wearing clothes more geared toward a nightclub, meaning they are probably doing dinner here before going somewhere else. And then there are plenty of the typical Seattleites—like me—who look like they either walked out of a hip coffee shop or REI, which means casual is the name of the game.
“There are plenty of people in here dressed no differently than me,” I point out as Carrick leads me toward the bar. He chooses two stools at the corner of the large rectangular-shaped bar, making us adjacent to each other.
“I know,” he replies dismissively, then catches the eye of a bartender, who quickly comes over to us. Carrick orders a gin and tonic, and I ask for a glass of wine.
“Then why make a big deal about it?” I ask when the bartender leaves.
His gaze, previously moving over the people at the bar, comes to me. His expression doesn’t seem to indicate he’s put out by my question at all. “Because when I’m out and about on the town and have someone on my arm, it often makes the papers. You’re definitely not the type of woman I go out with, so this will draw attention if we have our picture taken by someone who recognizes me. It will end up in the gossip column, and I’d rather not draw attention to us being together.”
I stare, unsure of what to say. I’m not sure if it was his intention, but that clearly came off as him being embarrassed to be seen with me.
Choking down some slightly hurt feelings, I decide to test my boundaries and say what’s really on my mind. “I think you’re way too hung up on yourself.”
Carrick doesn’t even meet my eyes. Instead, his gaze still roams around the other patrons as if I’m not even there.
“Let me guess,” I continue with my newly formulated theory. “You usually have a blonde model with big boobs, big hair, and a pea-sized brain on your arm who dresses provocatively for the attention. Right?”
I think he might ignore me, but then his eyes make a lazy slide my way, his lips curled in amusement. “You make that sound like it’s a bad thing.”
I roll my eyes, his answer designed not to give me any insight, but rather to make fun of my observations.
There’s no doubt a man like him can get any woman he wants, and he has anti-monogamy written all over him. In fact, I would imagine he’s probably been out with a different woman the last three nights I was with Zaid working my ass off.
Gritting my teeth, I turn my body slightly to face the bartender and watch as he prepares our drinks. I’m mad at myself for even contemplating what type of love life Carrick Byrne has because he is of absolutely no interest to me in that way.