Page 8 of Fangs for the Memories
I plonk myself down at the bar, and the barman, who looks almost suspiciously like the receptionist, comes over to me.
“What can I get you, Miss?” he asks. He pronounces “what” as “vot,” and it is quite cute. Maybe there is something in this Hungarian hottie idea after all.
“A very, very large glass of white wine. In fact, just bring me the bottle, please,” I say.
“Any particular wine?” he asks, not batting an eyelid at my request.
“Your choice,” I respond. I’ve never been a wine snob and I’m not about to start now.
In short order, I have a glass in front of me and a wine bottle chiller too. He pours out a small amount of the wine into the glass and slides it across the bar.
Well, if I’m in a fancy hotel, I may as well be fancy.
I swill the wine around like I’ve seen on the television, sniff it (it smells like wine), and then take a sip.
I am not prepared for the flavor which bursts over my tongue. Crisp, clear, dry, and delicious. I swallow with surprise and a gasp.
“That’s really good!”
“Hungarian.” He grins at me, tops up my glass, and then moves off down the bar to serve a blonde woman, leaving me to contemplate my existence.
It doesn’t take long and the wine goes down all too easily as the lights outside twinkle and the day dies away, turning into night once again.
“Are you eating this evening, Miss?” the barman asks.
I shake my head.
He moves away once more. The bar is hardly full, but he’s certainly being kept busy. Not that I care. I’ve got a good buzz in my head, and the more the wine goes down, the less I feel.
I don’t want to feel anymore. I don’t want the confusion in my head, the pain in my heart, and the knowledge that at some point I have to go home and face up to what has happened. Face my friends and my family. Rebuild my life.
The alcohol dulls the sense of betrayal inside me, but only just. I didn’t do anything to deserve what Mark has done, other than not really being in love with him, and maybe saying yes when he asked me to marry him all those months ago.
When he came back from a work trip, one I can see so clearly now was a weekend away with his bit on the side. Guilt drove him to make the offer and I should have passed.
Hindsight is a wonderful thing. Especially from this distance…the bottom of a wine bottle.
“Good evening.” A silky smooth accented voice glides over my ear.
I glance to one side and see a dark suit covering an even darker shirt without a tie. I don’t bother looking up.
“I’m not here for company, thank you,” I say or rather slur. “Koszon…Kozon…” I struggle for the word. “Nope, can’t do it today.”
“Köszönöm,” he says.
“You don’t need to thank me.” I laugh. “I’ve not done anything for you, yet.”
“I do not want you to do anything for me,” Mr. Suit says.
A hand appears on the bar beside me, a very, very large hand attached to a thick wrist with the biggest Rolex I’ve ever seen wrapped around it. This time I do raise my head to look at my new neighbor.
In my experience, those who wear flashy watches often look like the back end of the bus.
In this case, experience has not done me any favors. After a bottle of wine, my sight is somewhat impaired, but this guy is certainly not the wrong end of the bus. He’s not anywhere near bus status.
He’s closer to god status.
This man is absolutely gorgeous, with high cheekbones, strong nose, and eyes which are the deepest, darkest brown boring into me. He has a shadow of a beard and thick dark hair I’d love to run my hands through.
