Page 18 of The Bar Next Door
Instead, her pupils seem to grow even wider than they already have in the dim light of the street. Her inhale is the barest hint of a gasp, a breath of desire so brief it must be unconscious and—much more likely—probably imagined by me. Still, she starts walking down the stairs again, glancing back over her shoulder to make sure I’m in tow.
I could happily stand taking in this view for the rest of the night. She reallyisravishing. The huge winter boots and puffy red coat would be old lady-esque on anyone else, but paired with her unrelenting curves and those damn perfect lips, she looks like a girl you want to throw over your shoulder and carry off to a warm cabin where you can spend the better part of a weekend making her walk around injustthose woolly boots.
I’ve never even been to amauditcabin.
Get it together, I order myself.One drink. That’s all you asked for, and that’s all she offered. You don’t have time for more.
Not tonight. Not this weekend. Not ever.
I learned that lesson the hard way.
The bar’s hostess, a heavily done-up woman in heels and a little black dress, leads us to a table flanked by two arm chairs along the back wall of the room. The place is on the smaller side and themed like a speakeasy: leather seats, panelled ceiling, velvet curtains covering the walls. The room hums with muted conversation, glasses clinking and catching the reflection of the dim lighting so it looks as if the guests are holding crystals in their hands.
It’s a small miracle to have gotten a table at this hour on a Saturday night. I brought us here on the off-chance; I expected to have to try somewhere else. The hostess offers to take our coats. I slip mine off and find Monroe still fumbling with hers.
“May I?” I ask.
She glares at my raised hands like she has no idea what I intend to do, and I nearly start laughing again. There’s something about her round face and arching eyebrows that makes her confused expression look almost childish, like a kid getting frustrated as they stumble over a math problem.
She relaxes when I reach for the shoulders of her coat and turns so I can help her out of it. Her hair has slipped forward over her shoulders, leaving a triangle of white skin bare before it meets with the band of her shirt.
I swallow as I finally get the coat off her.
Just one drink.
Yet even the thought of Madame Bovary alone in my condo waiting for the organic treats I pay far too much for doesn’t stop me from wishing this evening with Monroe could stretch on into more.
The hostess leaves with the jackets, and it’s only a minute or so more before our server arrives with drink menus. He makes brisk conversation with us about our evening, and I answer his French questions in the same language before he hurries away to the next table.
“You’re not from here,” Monroe states in English once we’re alone again.
“What makes you say that? Never met a Québécois man so charming?”
Again with the flirting. I haven’t flirted in longer than I care to remember—not like this, at least. This is the same easy feeling that comes when you’ve had just a little more wine than you should. It’s the heady warmth that coaxes words off your tongue when they’d normally be smart enough to stay put.
“I’ve met Québécois men muchmorecharming,” she responds with a scoff. “It’s your accent. When you speak French, it sounds European.”
I lean forward, staring at her over the top of my glasses as I lower my voice. “Aimes-tu mon accent, Monroe?”
She doesn’t answer my question about whether she likes it.
“Where are you from?”
“La France,” I answer, laying the accent on extra thick. “Bordeaux, specifically, in case you wanted to know.”
The inquisitive expression doesn’t leave her face. “Your English is flawless, though. When you speak it, you have this...I can’t quite figure it out, but you almost sound...”
“British?” I supply.
She snaps her fingers. “That’s it! I couldn’t place it. It’s really subtle, but sometimes I can pick it up. It was driving me crazy trying to figure it out.”
I like the idea of driving her crazy way too much.
“I had a few British tutors growing up,” I explain, “and after that, I was at Cambridge for a while.”
Her shoulders stiffen. “Wait. Cambridge? As in, youwent to Cambridge University?”
“For two years,” I amend. “Then I dropped out.”
