VIOLET
WHEN I FIND MY FRIEND DANIELLE’S FACE BEHIND THE BAR OF the Rumrunner hotel, I head toward her like a heat-seeking missile. My mood must be clear because the moment she catches my eye she mouths, “The usual?”
By the time she finishes delivering drinks down the bar and mixing my White Russian, I’ve settled into a seat, but indignation still has me restless.
“Stop destroying my swizzle sticks,” Dani says as she sets the glass of cold sweetness in front of me. “I can’t believe you’re still obsessed with these.”
I lift my glass in a toast. “To The Big Lebowski. Its cast included some of the finest actors of our generation, and it taught me about the yummiest cocktail I’ve ever tasted.
“Where’s your boy toy?” she asks while pulling a beer for another customer. My job requires a certain amount of multi- tasking, but Dani’s busier back there than ants at a picnic. However, she’s bartended since the minute she turned twenty-one seven years ago, so she’s able to listen while she works.
I stir my drink until the ice cubes spin. “That’s an excellent question. He was supposed to meet me at Mediterraneo for dinner an hour ago, but he never showed.”
“Bummer.”
“Go ahead. You know you want to say it.”
She just zips her lips.
“I know I should break up with him.” I tick the reasons off on my fingers. “He’s too young, he’s not very smart, he’s unreliable.”
When she returns from delivering drinks, I finish the list. “But he’s hella hot, and it would be mad awkward at the office if I broke up with him.”
She just smiles and shrugs, but I know what she would say if she weren’t so chill. “I know, I know. As soon as this is over, I’m swearing off baby surfer dudes.”
“How old is he, anyway?”
I tap my chin. “Twenty-two, I think? When he first came in to sign up for work as an extra, I’m pretty sure he filled in his birth year as 1975.”
“Six years between you is a dog’s age,” a bright and bubbly voice says behind me.
“Hey, girl. Whatcha drinkin’?” Dani asks Whitney—our other best friend—as she slips onto the barstool to my left. As per usual, guys up and down the bar stretch their necks to check her out. From her blond highlights to the big blue eyes made even bigger by artfully applied makeup, her look is designed to capture the male gaze, and it always does.
“A glass of chardonnay, please,” Whit says primly before turning to me. “Thought I might find you here.”
“You were looking for me?”
Biting a lined lower lip, she digs through the Fendi baguette she must have spent a ridiculous amount of money on. I mean, I love that new show Sex and the City too, but I can’t afford to dress or accessorize like any of those women.
“When I dropped Skye at your place, Lance was there.” Whitney slides a folded piece of paper across the bar, but when I try to take it, she won’t let go. “You have to promise not to kill the messenger.”
I snag the paper. After a quick perusal of what’s written on it, I just shake my head. I should’ve known better. You never pair a leading man with a character actress.
“That bad?” Dani asks.
“What does it say?” Whitney whispers.
“You didn’t look?” I ask her.
“I would never,” Whitney protests. “But Lance did say he was afraid to tell you in person. He was just going to pin it to your door.”
“Afraid? Of what?” I demand.
Whit flinches. “Of you yelling.”
I blow out an impatient breath and pick up the piece of paper again.
“Did he break up with you?” Dani asks.
The White Russian is hitting the spot, but I push it away so I’m not tempted to gulp it down. “He not only broke up with me, he’s moving to LA.”
Which means I’ve lost my receptionist as well as my boyfriend—or whatever he was.
“Is this seat taken?”
I squeeze my eyes shut before answering the question posed from behind me. In fact, I find myself squeezing every- thing shut in response to the tone of that voice. Not that it’s grating or bullish, the kind of voice that rubs me the wrong way. This man’s luscious, mellow tone is catnip that has me wanting to rub against him.
Please be hideous, please be hideous, please be hideous, I chant silently as I move my boho bag from the bar stool next to me. Armed with the Southern hospitality my grandma raised me to use, I scoot my seat away as much as I can in the crowded space. “It’s all yours.”
When I turn to look at him, the words As am I resound inside my skull. Where did they come from?
Let me count the ways.
First off, the dark-haired, five o’clock–shadowed guy with the sinful voice and a naughty look in his eye is a dead ringer for that guy from Steel Magnolias and The Practice, Dylan McDermott. I’d long ago shelved fantasies that the actor himself would shoot a movie in town and sweep me off my feet, but this guy’s right here, and he smells like—
“Crowded for a Sunday night, huh?” That voice startles me back to reality. Man, I hope he didn’t catch me sniffing him.
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