Page 55 of Secret Nights and Northern Lights
I’m mostly finished with my dinner when a muscly man with hay-colored hair and icy blue eyes sinks into the open seat to my left and summons the bartender. He looks to be in his thirties like me, and when the bartender comes to take his order, his American accent catches my ear.
“You’re American?” I say, rudely interrupting his drink order.
He eyes me for the first time. “Yes,” he drawls in a distinctly Southern (and suspicious) accent.
“Sorry,” I say, realizing I’m being weird. But most accents I’ve heard here have been European. “I am, too. Please ignore me.”
The man smiles, revealing a set of perfectly straight, shockingly white teeth, and his expression changes as he looks me over. “Can I buy my fellow American a drink then?”
“Oh, that’s okay. I was just about to…”
I trail off when the door to the restaurant swings open and Ben appears in the doorframe, backlit by the fading sunlight. He’s dressed in an emerald green sweater, a gray wool coat, and dark jeans, and as he steps through the doorway, he pulls off hisbeanie and runs a hand through his messy, golden brown hair. The sight of him affects me, viscerally, and by the pit forming in my stomach, I know without a doubt I’m about to do something very, very stupid.
“Actually, a drink wouldn’t hurt,” I say to Blond Man who is not Ben. “I’ll take a vodka soda.”
Smile widening, the man turns to the bartender and orders our drinks, but I don’t hear the specifics because I’m too busy staring at Ben. He catches my gaze and makes a quick appraisal of the situation, jaw tightening as he takes in the stranger at my side. When he blinks back to me, I can read the disappointment in his eyes from across the room, and guilt fills the open chasm in my stomach.
Looking away, Ben takes an open seat at the opposite end of the bar, and I realize the man at my side is speaking again.
“I’m sorry. What was that?” I turn his way and offer a friendly, but nottoo friendly,smile.
“I asked your name,” Blond Man says.
“Oh.” Should I tell this guy my real name? This is so not me. Where is Jacklyn when I need her? “I’m Mona. Mona Miller. From New York. Brooklyn to be exact.” Shit, I might as well provide him my fucking address in case he wants to come murder me on his next vacay. How am I thirty-one years old and failing basic Stranger Danger 101?
The man’s smile is overtly smarmy as he looks me up and down. “Well, Mona from Brooklyn, I’m Tad from Charleston.”
“Todd?”
“No.Tad.As in Tad Peterson Jr.”
Dear god, what have I gotten myself into? Even this man’s name is off-putting. Still, I smile warmly as the bartender returns with our drinks.
An hour—and four vodka sodas—later, Tad has told me all about his work as some kind of finance bro (classic), his historic home in the city (probably bought with Tad Peterson Sr.’s money), and how if I ever visit Charleston, he’ll be happy to “show me around” (his bedroom, I’m certain). But I laugh and flirt (and mostly drink since he won’t shut the fuck up) because as childish as it is, I want to make Ben feel a sliver of the rejection I felt last night. That I felt fourteen years ago.
Also, I’m a little drunk.
Ben remains seated across the bar. He’s finished his dinner and now sits with his palm hovering over a crystal tumbler of whiskey, rotating it in his fingers but never sipping. I haven’t made eye contact with him since he first walked in, allowing myself only lightning-fast glances here and there, but I feel his stare scouring my skin.
While I’m laughing at some joke I didn’t listen to (and that might have been a bit misogynistic from the part I did catch), Tad leans in too close to my face and whispers, “Let’s get out of here.”
A shiver runs up my spine. Not the good kind. “I don’t think I’m in any condition for company tonight.” I shake my empty glass for emphasis, the melting ice cubes clinking together.
“You only had a few drinks, sweetheart.” The term of endearment makes bile rise in the back of my throat. Tad stands and tosses some bills on the bar to cover our drinks, suddenly impatient. “Come on, let’s go.”
His hand wraps around my upper arm, but I jerk away. This is quickly escalating to something I never intended. “Look, I appreciate the drinks, but I’m not leaving here with you.”
Tad, unfazed, simply smirks. “Come on, baby.” He leans into my space again, and this time his hand starts rubbing my lower back. “I promise I’ll show you a good time.”
Again, I twist away from his touch and say, “Please stop.”
The room is starting to spin now, the effects of that fourth drink setting in hard, and nothing feels real anymore. Before I process what’s happening, Ben is at my side, his voice hard and syllables clipped when he tells Tad, “You heard her. She’s not going anywhere with you.”
“Whothe fuckare you?” Tad demands, puffing his chest out like some strange bird claiming its territory. “She can go anywhere she wants.”
Oh shit.
“Yes, she can,” Ben says. “And she already told you she doesn’t want to leave here with you.”
