Page 8 of The Last Days of Lilah Goodluck

“Hmm?”

“You said something about a woman being right. What did you mean?”

“Do you always ask this many questions?”

The bartender places a napkin along with the impressive red concoction in front of me. It is embellished with a stick of celery and a cocktail pick loaded with an olive, a pickled onion, a gherkin, and a cube of cheese. How great is a cocktail that comes with its own snacks?

“Thank you,” I say. “It looks amazing.”

“I’m not staying,” the stranger tells the waiting bartender when she asks if he’d like a drink.

“Then you should go.” I take a sip of the drink andholy shit. “Whoa. That’s spicy.”

The corners of his eyes crinkle in amusement. “You’ve never had a Bloody Mary before?”

“No. But I always wanted to try one. No time like the present.” Then it occurs to me. I slap the palm of my hand on the wooden bar top. “Septum. It’s called a septum piercing. Gah. I hate it when I get all worked up and lose words. It is so annoying.”

His mouth opens slightly but nothing comes out. The way he’s watching me...it’s actually closer to amusement than wonder now. His scales of judgment have definitely tipped in the wrong direction when it comes to me.

Some of the paprika dusted around the rim of the glass has fallen on me. I carefully brush off my fifties-style cream-colored short-sleeve top and navy pants. “I bet you’re perfect and never get frazzled or forget anything.”

His gaze jumps from my breasts to my face. So busted. “I wouldn’t say that,” he says.

“Whatever. You were leaving.”

“I was actually waiting for you to tell me your story.”

“I never agreed to that. Who says there even is a story?”

“Oh, there’s definitely a story,” he says. “I can feel it. And wouldn’t it be great to get it off your chest?”

“Your concern for my chest has been noted. Thanks.”

He has the good grace to look mildly ashamed. But not for long, and it doesn’t stop him from once again demanding, “Tell me.”

“No. I’d prefer not to.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’ll think it’s stupid.Ithink it’s stupid.” A sigh. “Why do you even care? Where is this sudden concern for a commoner like me coming from?”

“Commoner.” He snorts. “I don’t know. It’s not like there aren’t things I should be doing. Call it curiosity. My gran always said I had an excess of the stuff.”

“Great.” I down more of the drink and watch him out of the corner of my eye. If I avoid direct eye contact, he might go away. A girl can hope. “The Tabasco is a lot. But there’s a hint of citrus too. I think it’s lime juice.”

“Bartenders tend to have their own recipes. But it’s usually some combination of pickle juice, horseradish, and Worcestershire sauce.”

“Look at you, being all fancy and correctly pronouncing woos...wooster...whatever that sauce is called.”

“Worcestershire?” He bites back a smile. “If I promise not to think your story is stupid, will you tell me?”

“Will you promise to go away if I do?”

“Sure.”

He sounds sincere. But I need to see his face to know if I can trust him to keep his word. That’s what I tell myself, at any rate. There is nothing wrong with his strong jawline and high forehead. His nose, however, is almost too large for his face. Nice to know he’s not perfect. He has well-proportioned lips and a subtle natural sort of pout. But it’s the air of rugged masculinity that pulls the whole thing together. The whole thing being him. It’s clear why the press calls him Prince Charming. He definitely qualifies for dashing and dreamy.

And he sits and waits with amiable patience while I look him over.

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