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Flipping my long brown hair over my shoulder, I survey him once again.
I swear this guy, in what looks like a suit that costs more than my entire shoe collection, must do this every Friday night. He’s not specifically interested in me. Nope, not at all.
It’s because I’m a new face and have never been in this bar before.
I’m fresh meat and judging by the length of his incisors, he wants to eat me alive.
Eh, no thanks; I’d rather chew off my own left arm.
“Are you sure I can’t buy you a drink? Because it looks like you could use a refill.” He lifts his hand to get the bartender’s attention.
I shake my head in response. “I’m fine, but thank you.” I push the glass away from me.
Resting his forearm on the bar, he stares at me, turning the awkward dial up to a solid ten. “It’s like that, is it?” he asks.
I don’t follow. “Like what?” I gesture with open palms.
“You want to cut out the niceties and just come back to my apartment?” He tilts his head to the side, and his hooded eyes drop down my body before his mouth shapes a smug grin.
Presumptuous asshole.
Knowing exactly what he’s implying, I ask, “I’m curious; what led you to believe that?”
He moves closer to me, his mouth finding the shell of my ear. “Because for the last thirty minutes you’ve been eye-fucking me in the mirror.” His words feel like ice chips being poured down the back of my dress, and I shiver in disgust.
The delusional prick.
Since I arrived, he’s been undressingmewith his eyes, not the other way around.
I lean out of his closeness that I don’t appreciate and pull a fake smile. “Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
He flashes me his teeth, looking pleased with himself, as if he’s already assumed he’s won me over. “Chase,” he answers.
“Well, Chase.” I twirl my hair around my finger playfully. “You see, I don’t know what your wife would say if I went home with you, do you?”
He flinches, snapping backward as if I’d slapped him. “My wife? Shit, how do you know her? Is this a set-up?” His voice trembles, brows growing worried with lines, and his gaze darts around the bar.
Coolly, I reply, “Here’s the thing, Chase. Guys like you are so easy to spot. Your wedding finger has a clear indent in it as well as a tan line.” I point to his left hand as I turn to the side on my barstool to face him full on.
I slowly cross my black stocking-covered legs and continue. “Your wedding ring is now wrapped around the ring finger ofyour other hand, but it’s too big for it, and that’s why you keep fiddling with it.” He stops immediately, tucking his hands into the pockets of his dress pants. “It doesn’t feel right on that hand, does it? Because it doesn’t belong there.”
Red blotches grow across the skin of his neck, while his movements become agitated at my directness.
Satisfied that my observation was correct, I add further, “Also, I watched you take it off and switch its position twenty minutes ago.” Dumbass. I raise my finger in the air to make my point and wag it at him. “Be careful not to lose that, or your wife will start asking questions.”
Chaseflashes his teeth as if he were about to say something, but I stop him in his tracks. And partly because I can’t help myself, I go on to say, “Let me take a guess.” I feign overthinking, looking up to the left, then tap my fingers against the bar. “You have an apartment in the city for the nights you’re working late, but it’s really a fuck pad to cover your illicit affairs while your wife is sitting in an obnoxiously oversized house in the suburbs.” I stop for a beat. “With one child?” I wait for him to give me an answer, but he doesn’t. I guess again. “Two children?” He remains stoic while I take another guess. “Three kids?”
“Are you a witch or something?” His hand nervously runs through his slicked-back hair.
“Three? Wow. You have been busy.”
He spits venom my way. “Fuck you.”
“You wish.” Swiveling round on my ass to face the bar again, I deliver a parting farewell with a finger wave over my shoulder, dismissing him. “Have a great night, Chase. And please do your wife a favor and divorce her already. She deserves better.”
I hear him muttering under his breath, which sounds a lot likeFucking frigid bitch, as he storms off, and I laugh to myself as I signal to the bartender I would like a drink. “Another Manhattan, please.” Smiling, I point to my empty glass.
“I’ll get that.” A one-hundred-dollar bill is slapped down, then slid across the bar by a strong tan hand in the direction of the bartender. “And a Macallan single malt on the rocks, please.”