If she was after a rich husband or sugar daddy, this would be her choice.
She didn’t bother glancing his way as he started his spiel, just let him finish his preamble before shaking her head at him as well.
Interesting.
A beautiful woman dressed like she was, alone at a bar. They were typically there for a reason. Usually, that reason was a man.
But she didn’t check her phone or look toward the door, didn’t glance at the clock on the wall to her left.
It didn’t seem like she was waiting for a significant other.
All the more intriguing.
I hung back, letting the next guy try his luck. But the moron didn’t even bother to take off his wedding ring when he went up to her.
That seemed to get her attention when he waved his hand to gesticulate.
Her head turned slowly, eyes keen, a predator sizing up her prey.
I couldn’t make out the words or the tone when she spoke, but the frigidness of her expression sent a chill through me from a solid twenty feet away.
The man shriveled before her, shoulders curling in, chin dipping toward his chest.
By the time she was done speaking, he looked suitably chastened, rushing off. Not to rejoin his friends across the room, but straight out the front door. I imagined home to his loving, unsuspecting wife.
“Now how is he going to go home and offer his wife his balls if you have them in your pocket?” I asked, moving in beside her, facing forward, nodding at the bartender who already knew my drink. I’d been to this bar many times over the years.
“That sounds like his problem,” she told me. And for an ice queen, that voice was all milk and honey, sweet and smooth. I couldn’t help but wonder what it sounded like when it was moaning.
But one thing at a time.
“If you’re not waiting for your man, and you won’t entertain any of the ones who are coming up to you, what are you doing here?”
“Can’t a woman enjoy a drink alone at a bar?”
“Sure she can.”
“And how do you know I’m not waiting for a man? Have you been watching me?” she asked, half turning her head toward me, cold gaze doing a slow sweep. I wasn’t sure I’d ever felt as exposed before as I did right then.
“Yes,” I admitted, figuring it would be useless to lie. “It’s your own fault, though. You are very watchable.” Something about that seemed to rub her the wrong way. When her head faced forward again, I could have sworn her eyes rolled. “It has been a long time since I saw someone dress three men down that quickly,” I added, not ready to give in just yet, even if my usual charms appeared to be failing me.
“It hasn’t been long since three men have deserved it,” she shot back.
“Oh, we can’t all be that bad,” I told her, smile pulling up.
“Like you?” she asked, giving me her attention once again. “With the boyish smile and the bone structure that speaks of good breeding and the nice suit, but the casual lack of tie and undone two buttons? You’re one of the good ones? With the harem of girls still mooning over you from half a bar away?”
“So I wasn’t the only one doing some watching,” I concluded, feeling like I had a leg to stand on now, making my grin go from boyish to cocky. “It was me you were waiting for, wasn’t it? Had your heart set on me from the moment you walked in the door. Don’t worry, you wouldn’t be the first to fall head-over-heels in love with me at first sight,” I teased, watching as one of her brows arched up slowly.
“I wonder what it must say about a man who needs the attention of every woman in a bar?” she mused, speaking to the bartender who looked uncomfortable being put on the spot, seeming to sense her jab was at me, and not wanting to risk his tip.
“I think it says he knows that it takes many women to fill the space of the one right woman.”
“I’m not the right woman.”
“You don’t know what kind of right woman I am looking for.”
“Open legs, closed mouth, most likely.”
“See, now that is where you’re wrong. I like mouths open too. Oh, don’t look at everything under that cynical lens of yours,” I suggested when her lip curled at my wording, misunderstanding my meaning.
“It is the only lens I have, Mr.—”
“Arlington. Fenway Arlington.”
“Fenway Arlington,” she repeated, and I have to admit that I liked the way my name sounded on her lips. “Does anyone in the world have quite as pretentious a name as you do, Mr. Arlington?”
“Well, I have a cousin named Love.”
“Their actual name? On their birth certificate?” she clarified, disbelieving.
“On their birth certificate. And all her monogrammed baby blankets.”