Page 6 of Drunk on Love

He looked down at his whiskey, which was halfway gone.

“Not yet, but I’ll definitely want another.”

She looked over at Margot.

“Anything for you?” the bartender asked.

Margot grinned at her.

“I will also have the burger and fries, please. Thank you.”

When the bartender walked away, Margot looked at Luke and shrugged.

“I hadn’t intended on having the burger tonight, but I knew once you’d ordered it there was no way I could sit here next to you without wanting one of my own.”

Why was he suddenly so pleased that she intended to sit here and have dinner with him? That’s not what he’d come out for tonight; he’d just wanted to sit somewhere and drink a little too much and eat something halfway decent. But now he was suddenly having dinner with Margot, and he was very glad about it. Flirting with a strange woman at a bar who didn’t ask anything of him—and who looked just as good for the soul as the whiskey in front of him—was exactly what he needed right now.

“So, Margot,” he said as he picked up his drink, “what do you do?”

She lifted her hand in the air and swatted his question away.

“Oh no, please, let’s not talk about work. It’s Sunday night, no one should talk about work on a Sunday night, don’t you agree?”

A strange woman at a bar who not only didn’t quiz him about why he’d quit his job, but didn’t want to have the normal bar conversations. Even better.

“I agree, absolutely,” he said. “Okay, then, tell me something more interesting.” He stopped and thought. “When’s the best time you ever had to get a tow truck?”

She laughed loudly this time. Her laugh was less throaty, more explosive. He was glad that he’d made her laugh like that.

“That’s a much better question,” she said. “And I have a good story about that, actually.”

His appetizers landed in front of him, and he smiled at the server.

“Thanks,” he said. He pushed the plates over so they were in between the two of them. “Please. Feel free.”

She reached down and picked up a piece of prosciutto.

“If you insist,” she said.

“I also insist that you tell me your story,” he said.

She took a sip of wine and grinned at him.

“Well,” she said. “I was in graduate school, and two friends of mine and I were in a rented pickup truck, driving through Death Valley.”

He looked up from the charcuterie plate to her.

“Oh, this is going to be good,” he said.

Her grin got wider.

“It absolutely is.”

He listened to her story and tried to figure out more about her. If she hadn’t said she was a local, he wouldn’t have pegged her as being from here. Partly, yes, because she was Black—when he’d gone to high school here, he’d been one of the only Black people in his class. But also, just in the same way she’d been able to tell he wasn’t local from his clothes, he wouldn’t have guessed that she was local because of hers. She looked too... stylish to live and work in the valley. Not that people around here dressed badly—it was just that they dressed for work, and work was at wineries or on farms or at hotels or spas, and each of those jobs had their own kind of uniform, official or unofficial.

None of those uniforms were the snug, sleeveless black dress Margot wore—a dress that showed all of her curves—or the armful of bracelets that jangled every time she gestured, which was frequently, nor the leather jacket slung over the back of her barstool.

But more than the clothes, it was the attitude. Margot walked, talked, even sat, like she was in charge. Like she commanded all of those around her to do her bidding, and they did it, no questions asked.

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