Page 3 of What I'm Looking For

My hand floats into the air between us but before I can even touch him, he staggers back. “Whoa, Kate.” His hands rise along with the volume of his voice. “Calm down. Jeez, try to give a girl a compliment and she freaks out on you.”

I sure hope Steve never tries to switch careers and become an actor because he’d definitely fail. His performance is preposterous.

“Unbelievable, huh, Brad?”

Tall Brad nods on his way past. Hot Steve jogs to catch up to him, mouthing, “See you later,” to me.

Shaking my head at the dramatics, I head back to my cubicle where my bagel and piles of reports await.

* * *

By the timefive thirty rolls around, the cubicles around me are silent. The boys have long since decamped to the bar. I run a hand over the stack of 10Qs I’m in the process of distilling into recommendations that need to be on Roland’s desk before I leave tonight.

If I had the balls to dazzle a roomful of institutional investors all by myself, I could just blow off the sales crew. Unfortunately, I lack them, both literally and figuratively.

Straightening my piles one last time, I give them a goodbye pat. “Don’t worry my pretties. I’ll be back soon.” I’ll just have one drink, play nice and then treat myself to takeout from the new Indian place on the way back. I’ll still be able to finish up and make it home tonight by ten. Eleven at the latest.

Walking the few short blocks to the Bull and Finch in the brisk spring air clears my head and buoys my morale. I can do this. I already have my choices narrowed down to three: Skinny Brad, Mustache Mark or Short Steve. I swear Rhodes Wahler only hires men with the names Brad, Mark or Steve. To keep them straight, I give them labels.

As I wait for the light to change, I must be positioned where they filmed the opening credits forCheers, because my view of the bar looks exactly like it does on TV, from the big white awnings to the wrought iron gate. Maybe there’ll be a cute bartender like Woody to make me a drink.

Unfortunately, when I step inside it’s a different story. A few patrons resembling Cliff and Norm hug one end of the bar, but young people in suits fill every other nook and cranny. The Rhodes Wahler guys are predictably loud, so I find them quickly.

Turns out he wasn’t kidding about the bet. As soon as the Brad/Mark/Steves spot me, a chorus goes up—half cheers, half groans. Fortunately they’re quickly distracted by whatever game’s on, and I escape to get my token drink.

On my way to the bar, Hot Steve slips me a wad of cash. Halfway through counting it, a warm, resonant voice catches my attention. “What’ll you have?”

“Um.” A sweaty mug of beer rests on the bar to my right. That’d make me sleepy. To the left, a pink drink sparkles. I point at it. “I’ll have that, please.”

A cheer draws my attention back to the guys and I go over my checklist. I’ll have to spend a significant amount of time traveling with this partner, so I should definitely evaluate each candidate for bad breath or BO. I wish I could get a hold of their driving records and, at the very least, see if they have DUIs.

Movement behind the bar has me sliding a five across and reaching for the glass that appears in its stead. Bubbles float up through pink liquid, sparkling in the low light. At the stem’s base, long fingers and a wide palm press into the wood. I attempt to lift the glass. It does not budge. Clearly, I am not going to win this tug of war.

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—“shewas 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.” Swallowing 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.”

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