Page 41 of Offside Attraction

He grinned and his hair fell over his forehead. “Sometimes. But I’m always willing to be spontaneous.” He tapped her table, then turned and walked away.

She could do it. She could work her way through dinner, then end up on the stool next to him after eight. It would be the most natural thing in the world. They’d flirt, she’d order a drink, he’d probably pay, or the bartender would pull him a solid, and then she’d tell him what room she was staying in.

The thought made her mouth go dry, and she took another sip of water. That was exactly what she needed, wasn't it? To let loose. Forget about whatever had happened with Jordan.

Rhonda didn’t have much time to consider. The doctors filed in, and she stood, shaking hands and making introductions. She’d met two of them previously, and the others were colleagues they’d brought along.

The dinner went exactly to plan, besides a brief diversion when they found out she was allergic to peanutsandfenugreek as they were ordering. She gave the high-level story of how she’d discovered that, but it did allow her to expound on something high brow, nuanced, and intelligent within the first five minutes. From there, they discussed politics and hospital administration, then ended with Reviact and the impact it was having on patients around the country.

Even though she didn’t order the filet mignon, the server was extremely attentive. Always filling her water first, his eyes meeting hers from under his dark lashes. It was a welcome addition to her toolbelt. When other men picked up on a man’s pointed interest, they were immediately more tuned in to what that woman had to say.

Again. She judged herself for using all of it to her advantage, but would a man apologize for that? For using communication strategies or charisma? No, he sure as hell wouldn’t. This was business, and using her knowledge of human psychology didn’t make her unethical. It made her good at her job.

When the meal was over, Rhonda spoke with each of the doctors and thanked them for their time. She excused herself to the washroom as they said their goodbyes, then came back out at eight ten.

Sure enough, there he was. Sitting at the bar, chatting with the bartender. He smiled as she approached. “Fancy seeing you here.”

Rhonda smiled. “I ran out of water.”

He motioned to the barstool next to him. “Perfect. Because I already bought you a drink.”

Chapter

Twelve

Rhonda

Rhonda settled onto the barstool,running her fingers over the polished wood of the counter. “So what am I drinking?”

The waiter nodded to the bartender. “After that spiel in the booth? There was no way in hell I was ordering for you. I just told him to get you whatever you wanted.”

The bartender gave a mock bow, and Rhonda laughed. “Whiskey sour.”

The server raised an eyebrow. "Didn't peg you for a whiskey girl."

She smiled, leaning in. "Mixing things up, I guess."

He shrugged. "I don’t know. That's a bit of a classic."

Rhonda laughed. "It is. My mom used to make them."

"Oh? She was a bartender?"

Rhonda shook her head. "No, definitely not.”

Her mother had made that drink one time. She remembered it vividly, the image burned into every cell. Her mom stood in their beautiful kitchen with new countertops and the name brand dishwasher. The drink hadn’t been a celebration. It had been all she had in the house—a random bottle of whiskey her father had brought home and forgotten about, and a shriveled lemon from the back of the fridge.

Rhonda watched from the doorway as her mom poured, stirred, and gulped it back. Then, with shaking hands, she set the glass down, wiped her mouth, and quietly told Rhonda and her sister, who still lived at home, that they were getting divorced.

She’d never forgotten the look in her mom's eyes that night. Like a wild animal. A rabbit staring down a fox.

Leaving had been the hardest thing her mother had ever done, but staying would’ve been death by a thousand cuts. Her dad didn’t hit them. He didn’t have to. His control was absolute, like a puppeteer pulling invisible strings.

That summer home was when she’d rewritten her childhood. As a kid, her father had been a hero. Always taking care of anything, saying yes when her mother said no. But after being away, she saw his behaviour for what it was.

He managed every detail of their lives—what they ate, who they saw, what they wore. Rhonda didn’t know it was possible to do something sinister with a smile. He kept her mom isolated, convinced her she couldn’t make friends, refused to let her take classes. "I provide for you," he’d say in a tone that now made Rhonda's skin crawl. "Isn’t that enough?"

But Rhonda had seen the way her mom’s eyes would linger on books or commercials for community colleges. The way her hand hesitated when she wanted to call her sister but never did. Back then, Rhonda believed she was ungrateful. In reality, he’d made her so dependent on him that when she finally left, she had next to nothing. No savings, no safety net. Just the clothes she could carry and a couple bags of groceries.

---