Page 3 of We Were Something
Instead, all I can focus on is the infuriating conversation I recently had with my mother. Most of the conversations we have are…stiff. Uncomfortable. Full of chastisement for just about every component of who I am as a person or critiques about the way I’m floundering through life. But this one was just…beyond the pale, especially when she decided to drag my least favorite topic into the mix: my ex-boyfriend Giroux.
Simply remembering her words makes my blood start to boil. It’s been the main source of my frustration for days, and it doesn’t seem like a night out in the company of my peers is doing anything to distract me from playing it over and over again.
“Maybe if you’d paid a little more attention to your physique, he wouldn’t have gone searching elsewhere,” she said, her eyes narrowed at me from across the room.
I’ve never met a woman so capable of making me feel like nothing with so few words. As ifI’mresponsible for the fact that the bastard has a wandering eye.
I let out a huff of irritated breath at the thought, but then I push my shoulders back and step into the center atrium, choosing to focus on the here and now instead of the there and then.
Lifting my eyes, I take in the beautiful decor and expensive lights that make this space seem so much more grand than what it felt like back in my early teens. But I only stop to take in Lennon’s beautiful vision for a brief moment before I continue in the direction I was headed—in search of the bar, hoping another drink or two will help me silence the bitchy voice in my head.
“Gin and tonic, please,” I say once I’ve finally made it to the bar in the corner, having slipped through the crowd that has formed around the silent auction tables. “Monkey 47.”
The bartender nods and turns to grab my preferred gin from the fancy array of bottles displayed artfully behind him. A long whistle from my right has me turning to look at the lone man standing next to me at the other end of the bar.
“Fancy stuff,” he says, a soft grin resting on his face. “A buddy of mine bought me a bottle as a goodbye gift earlier this year. Five hundred bucks a pop.”
And then he turns to the side and rests an elbow on the bar, opening up his chest toward me in a way that makes it nearly impossible for me to do anything other than eye him from head to toe.
He’s wearing a perfectly fitted suit that encases his long, muscular body so well it almost distracts from the Tom Fords on his feet that are a few seasons old. He’s definitely not my age—mid-thirties, probably—with a tiny bit of gray at his temples and lightly dusting his scruffy beard as proof.
My eyes drop to his hands, noting the absence of a wedding band, before roaming across his broad chest and returning to some of the most gorgeous blue eyes I’ve ever seen. A girl could drown in those stormy blues.
Good thing I’m awomanand have sailed in enough rough waters not to let myself get lost.
“I might not know the cost of the bottle, but Idoknow I like my drinks from the top shelf,” I reply, shifting my weight slightly so I’m facing him as well.
He bobs his head and tucks his hands into his pockets. “Most people here seem to like that.”
“And you don’t?”
I ask because I want to know what he likes, but also because it’s a rare occurrence for me to meet someone whodoesn’twant top-shelf everything.
Drinks. Cars. Houses. Vacations. Electronics.
I grew up with the best of everything at my fingertips, so the concept of rejecting the best to go with something else is a foreign one, without a doubt.
He lifts a shoulder, his eyes dropping to watch as the bartender sets my drink in front of me with a flourish.
“Just because something is top shelf doesn’t mean it’s appealing to everyone,” he says. “It just means it’s the most expensive.”
“Which is usually a reflection of the quality.”
The guy chuckles, the sound deep and throaty, and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t stir something down in my belly.
“Usually,” he tells me, his eyes returning to mine and arresting me where I stand. “But not always.”
And just like that, I’ve found my new obsession: to get this man to look deep into my eyes like that for as long as I can bear it. Becausedamnif it doesn’t nearly knock me off my feet.
“For you, sir?”
My attractive new friend glances at me before looking at the bartender.
“I’ll have the same.”
We both wait in silence, though I don’t hide the fact that I’m continuing to drink him in where he stands.
When the bartender finally places the cocktail in front of him, I lift mine in the air and make a toast.
