My gaze roves up a corded forearm to a bulging bicep to wide shoulders to a square jaw stubbled with a Don Johnson-like five o’clock shadow and clear blue eyes lit with challenge.
I nod to the money still on the bar. “Is the drink more than five bucks?”
Full lips press together. The glass keeper shakes his head slowly. “No. I’m just not convinced that this is what you really want.”
Oh, for goodness sake. I force a smile as well as a friendly tone. “Isn’t the customer always right?”
Left hand still on the wineglass, he leans on his right elbow and rests his chin on his palm. “That’s what they say. But when you ordered, it seemed like you really wanted something else.”
“Oh, I get it. You just want to hear me ask for a sex on the beach or a sloe comfortable screw. Or is this some kind of up-sell strategy?”
He straightens, hands up, palms facing me. “If that white zin spritzer”—his words drip with distaste—“is what you’re looking for, take it. If not, I’ll make you something else, no additional charge.”
I grip the edge of the bar. How did this get so complicated? “Okay, you’re right. I just saw what”—I lean in, lower my voice and tip my head in the direction of the sparkly-bloused woman to my left, whose bangs arch over her forehead in a fashion that must’ve taken an inordinate amount of time, effort and hairspray to achieve —“she was having and copied her.”
I raise a hand to stop him from whisking the spritzer away and tip my head toward the Rhodes Wahler boys. “I’m just here to do a little face time, act like one of the guys. But then I have to go back to the office and work.”
I make myself smile to soften my bitchy tone. “It doesn’t really matter if I like the drink or not because I’m only going to hold it and then use it to water that plant over there every once in a while.” Swal‐ lowing the rest of my rant, I slide the five back over the bar and raise the wine glass. “So, thank you for your concern and keep the change.”
“Hold on.” His firm command pins my feet to the floor and freezes the glass on the way to my mouth. “That wine spritzer is not what you need.”
Just like my S.O.B. ex-boyfriend and really every man I seem to encounter, he obviously thinks he knows better. “It doesn’t matter. Like I told you, I’m just going to pretend to drink it.”
“Whether you drink it or the plant does, the spritzer is not going to work. Give it back.”
“Okaaay. Don’t have a cow.” I set the glass on the bar and cross my arms. “Sheesh.”
He points at me. “Wait here. Do not leave.”
“I said okay.” It’s like I’m on a schoolyard, fighting with a little boy I have a crush on. Not that I have a crush on this guy. There is something about him that has me wondering if I should take my sex drive out for a spin for a change, but I don’t have time for crushes.
Anyway, what’s wrong with ordering a wine spritzer? Isn’t that what women drink these days? Curiosity has me craning my neck to watch what he’s creating. I swear I’m not trying to check him out, but he’s bent over getting something out of a cooler, so I admire the view. Faded Levi’s hug blue-chip glutes like they’re made for each other.
This guy isn’t a sharp-suited swaggering Hot Steve. Instead, he moves with an easy confidence. When he straightens to pour a series of liquids into a glass, his wrist flipping bottles theatrically, I note an even distribution of muscle. Not rangy like a runner, not bulky like a body builder. He’s kind of a JFK Jr. with blue eyes. He’s actually even better looking than JFK Jr., if you can believe it.
He spins to grab a lemon and a knife, shoulders bobbing in time with U2. Bono still hasn’t found what he’s looking for. Just like me. Even so, I’m not sure this bartender is my type. He seems to enjoy standing out in a crowd with his paisley vest over a white button- down and a striped tie loosened at his neck.
Drink in hand, he turns my way, and my heart races around the perimeter of my ribcage. The last time I had this kind of reaction to a guy had to have been during Reagan’s first term. I dive into my handbag and pretend to search for something, hoping to hide the look of lust on my face.
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