Page 15 of P.S. I Dare You

I push through the twelve-foot double doors, the jangle of the bells barely audible over the thrum and lull of conversation that fills the place.

My gaze lands on an empty stool at the corner of the bar. It isn’t my favorite spot, but it’ll do.

Meeting the bartender’s gaze, he lifts the bottle of Maker’s Mark in his left hand and gives me a nod ‘hello.’

Maneuvering through high tops and various groups of Happy Hour Manhattanites, I make a beeline to my spot, only the second before I get there, some audacious little brunette in a black sweater steals the fucking thing right out from under me.

I TEXT LILLIE AND let her know I’ve made it to The Lowery before placing my phone away and taking a closer look around. I’d never heard of this place before, but apparently it’s all the rage ever since it appeared on some reality show earlier this year.

Maybe it’s the born-and-bred Californian in me, but I find it a little dark and dreary for my taste. The walls are covered in dark wood panels and the bar looks like it’s straight out of a 1940s-era hotel … but in an aged, no-one-has-bothered-to-touch-up-the-scratches kind of way.

It’s charming though.

I’ll give it that.

The bartender, a middle-aged man with gray at his temples and the kind of long lashes that women pay a lot of money for, approaches me. He doesn’t smile—typical New Yorker—and if I were being overly sensitive, I might even think he was annoyed that I’m sitting here.

His lips flatten. “What are we drinking?”

“Gin and tonic, please.” I cross my legs and check my phone. No response from Lillie yet.

I stopped by her office just after five, but she said she had a few spreadsheets to update and she’d meet me here as soon as she was finished.

The bartender tosses a paper coaster in front of me and turns to the back of the bar to grab a bottle of Bombay Sapphire. When he returns with my tumbler, his eyes lift over my shoulder for a brief moment.

On instinct and feeling a dark and ominous presence in my midst, I steal a quick glance from the corner of my eye.

Oh. Hell. No.

I turn my attention back to my drink as fast as humanly possible, my pulse quickening and my throat parching in an instant.

What are the odds that the jerk who ran into me and made me spill my coffee and also happens to be my future boss … would be standing behind me at this very bar, this very instant?

I should buy a lottery ticket today. Seems like the stars are in all kinds of alignment.

“Fifteen bucks,” the bartender says, pointing at my drink.

I dip into my purse, retrieving my shiny black debit card from the third slot on the left side of my wallet, when the warmth of someone’s palm rests on my shoulder.

“This one’s on me,” the jerk behind me says. He releases his hold on me, revealing a twenty-dollar bill folded between two fingers. “Assuming she’s willing to give up her seat.”

I swivel in my seat, facing him and trying to search for the perfect words for this pompous jackass despite the fact that I’m too professional to so much as think about using them.

“I’m so sorry,” I lie, batting my lashes and using the most saccharin tone I can muster. “I’m afraid this seat isn’t for sale.”

The indentation beneath his right cheekbone contracts, and the intensity of his gaze nearly makes me lose my train of thought.

He’s wearing a different shirt than before, swapping his Henley for a white v-neck t-shirt that hugs his muscled torso in all the right places.

Swallowing the lump in my throat that formed for reasons unknown, I straighten my shoulders and lift my chin.

I won’t let the fact that he’s extremely, unfairly, and undeniably attractive throw me off my game—none of which I realized after our incident this morning because the icy cold liquid dripping down my shirt had my mind focused on more pressing matters.

“Are we done here?” I lift a brow.

“No.” He smirks. “You’re still in my seat.”

Is he trying to be cute now? Taking things in a different direction since the twenty-dollar bill schtick didn’t work?

From the corner of my eye, I spot the flailing arms of a bubbly blonde, and when I maneuver my attention in that direction, I realize it’s Lillie. Her face is all smiles when she sees me, and she motions toward an empty booth.

Damn it.

I didn’t want to give into this ass. I really didn’t. I want to make it crystal clear that I’m not the sort to be walked all over (even if he doesn’t exactly know who I am yet).

But Lillie is waiting.

Grabbing my drink—which I’m absolutely making him pay for—I slide off the seat.

“Whatever it takes to get you out of my hair …” I step aside, pretending I don’t notice nor care that he hasn’t taken his eyes off me once this entire time. He must think I’m one of those girls—the ones who can be bought and paid for, the ones who weaken at the knees when an attractive stranger lets his stare linger.

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