Page 83 of Brewbies
Smack in the middle of the firm’s summer barbecue might not have been the opportune moment to ask this question, but Darby had thought it a valid point.
The lawn-full of lawyers hadn’t agreed.
Darby downed the rest of her drink in two swallows, wishing for something stronger.
Ancient history.
She had a job to do.
Slipping her vintage compact from her also vintage purse, she dusted translucent powder on her nose and used the small, circular mirror to scan the back of the room.
There in the corner booth, holding court like a queen, was Caryn Townsend.
Her sleek platinum bob gleamed in the amber lamplight, and the soft hue made her peaches-and-cream complexion glow.
Or was that the musicians?
Despite belonging to a generation with an entirely different letter (or two), they flocked around her like attentive moths. Offering drink refills. Promising to play any special requests she might have. Inquiring as to her plans for the remainder of the evening.
Inspiration hit Darby in a sudden flash.
Was Caryn Townsend…a cougar?
A woman shamelessly using her superior experience and sophistication to seduce unsuspecting conquests decades her junior for the purposes of wild, sweaty, uninhibited sex?
Darby could respect that.
Closing the compact with a snap, she tucked it in her bag and rose. She attempted to swallow the lump in her throat, pasting a neutral expression on her face before weaving her way through the haze.
Before Darby was within view, Caryn’s lips thinned, and the subtle lines next to her eyes smoothed as her smile melted. Her head swiveled, and eyes the exact same shade as Ethan’s ice blue locked on Darby’s.
The room seemed to be narrowing around Darby as the conversations and music faded into the background. She was no longer approaching a booth, but the headmistress’s desk with a backpack full of cigarettes purchased from her bake sale’s ill-gotten gains.
The same pounding heart, dry mouth, and damp palms. Same feeling of generalized dread mingled with irritation at herself for being intimidated.
One by one, the musicians turned to see what Caryn was looking at.
When they spotted Darby, their eyes quickly flicked over her body before immediately shifting to mirror Caryn’s.
Damn.
The woman wasgood.
“Guess we better get back to it,” the hot hipster with a ponytail and pierced nose said, scooting toward the edge of the booth bench.
His bandmates followed suit, grabbing their beers—coasters and all—and making their way back to the stage.
“Hi,” Darby said when her attention returned to the table. “Mind if I sit?”
Caryn took her time exacting a measured once-over, inclining her head slightly as if she was trying to work out Darby’s intentions. Diamonds winked from her fingers as she gestured to the tufted velvet banquette across from her.
Darby slid in and set her bag on the table. “Bass player?” she asked, somehow knowing that Caryn would understand what she was implying.
Caryn’s cool blue gaze shifted to the stage where Ponytail tipped his fedora to her and winked. “Maybe,” she said breezily. “Depends on how well he plays ‘Moonlight Serenade.’”
“But Glenn Miller isn’t jazz.”
Caryn angled an assessing look at Darby. “I know.”
