My life changed that night in the hotel bar. Little did I know I had entered a different world, one of money and wealth—
No, it’s not working. It’s clichéd and predictable.
I put my phone down with a sigh and reach for my Old-Fashioned. The drink screams refinement, but as I take another sip, I have to hide a grimace from the strength. I’d ordered it to fit in, too afraid to tell the snooty bartender that I wanted something fruity and sugary. Glancing morosely down at the overpriced drink, it is a decision I regret.
I’d come here to research the novel I was working on. To understand the setting, the rich decor, the throbbing beat of unintelligible jazz music. It’s an environment I’m unfamiliar with, and as the English Literature graduate I am, I know all about the importance of immersion. Where better than the Legacy sky bar atop one of the fanciest hotels in Seattle? Floor-to-ceiling windows open up to a skyline, glittering like the diamond necklace the woman next to me is wearing. It’s a place to see and be seen.
The bar is only half-full, but every single person is interesting. I’ve watched a beautiful blonde woman in sky-high heels eat an entire bowl of olives while staring blankly at her much older partner.
The olives were consumed in boredom, I write in the note-taking app on my phone, like so much of her life—experiences to seek experience itself, an escape from the tediousness of reality.
Then I read it back and delete the whole pretentious thing.
Maybe this had been a mistake. I’ve been sitting at the bar for nearly an hour alone, and it’s gone from empowering to embarrassing real fast. I smooth a hand over my tightly fitted black cocktail dress, an impulse buy over a year ago that had come in handy tonight. The novel I’m working on covers class differences and touches on the American Dream. Research is key, which is why I’d ventured to the Legacy on a Thursday evening, in search of inspiration.
But so far, I’d come to only two major conclusions: you have to be really rich to pay the steep drink prices here, and a nice bar is not immune to creeps.
The man to my left shoots me another leering glance. He’s nursing what must be his umpteenth scotch, his glazed eyes telling.
Isn’t it funny how creepy men exist everywhere, in each and every layer of our society? A suit and a six-figure income makes no difference.
I don’t delete that. It’s too true.
The man moves a few chairs over, a sly smile on his lips. “Good evening, gorgeous.”
“Evening,” I say.
“What brings you here tonight?”
“I just wanted a quiet drink,” I say, a slight emphasis on the word quiet.
His gaze drops from my eyes to my modest cleavage. “Same here. Let’s have a drink together.”
“Thank you, but I’m here more for the ambiance than for conversation.”
“Now, nobody comes to a bar to be alone.” He leans in closer and I’m hit by too strong cologne and far too much whiskey on his breath. This man is keeping it together outwardly, but judging by his bloodshot eyes, he is well past simple tipsiness.
“Well, I did, so if you’ll excuse me…”
I try to slip off of the barstool, but his hand on my bare shoulder holds me back. “Don’t be so quick to leave.”
“Please take your hand off me.”
“I don’t see—”
A deep voice drowns out whatever protest he was offering. “The lady made herself very clear. Take your hand off her.”
The drunken man looks up at the stranger by my side—we both do—and shrinks back. “Ah. I apologize.”
“You’ve had too much to drink,” the tall stranger says. “I suggest you retire for the evening, but if not, at least leave the lady alone.”
The drunken man’s eyes narrow, but he nods. “Didn’t know she was taken. Sorry.” He ambles off, and I gaze in a sort of dazed horror at the stranger in front of me.
He leans casually against the bar, the top of his expensive shirt unbuttoned, the look in his eyes somehow bored and interested at the same time.
“Are you all right?”
That stupid phrase comes to mind, a jawline that could cut glass. It never made any sense to me, but seeing him now, it finally does.
His features are precise, a five-o’clock shadow darkening his skin. Thick brown hair falls in waves across his forehead—the kind any woman would want to run her hands through. Broad shoulders and an expensive suit. He looks ruggedly wealthy, as opposed to polished rich, which strikes me as an important distinction.
I should write this down, I think weakly. Or take a picture.
His eyes grow concerned. “Miss? Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Yes,” I say. “Thank you.”
“It was my pleasure.”
An unpleasant thought hits me, and dazzled as I am, it spills right out. “He left because he thought we were a couple, and not because I said I wasn’t interested.”
“That’s probably true.”
“I don’t know how I feel about that.”
“Bad, I imagine,” the demigod says. “He should’ve respected your no.”
“He should’ve.”
“What are you drinking?”
I blink down at my glass. “An Old-Fashioned.”
“And you hate it,” he says, quirking an eyebrow.
“No, I don’t.”
“Yes, you do. I’ve been sitting right there”—he points to a secluded area of the bar—“and you’ve frowned every time you’ve taken a sip.”
“You’ve been watching me?”
“I like to people-watch.” He tilts his head to the side, giving me a better view of the sharp cut of his cheekbones. “As do you, I think. That’s what you’ve been doing here tonight, right?”
“Yes,” I say weakly.
“So? What have you concluded?”
“About our fellow patrons?”
“Yes.” He waves the bartender over. “I’ll have a whiskey neat. And the lady would like…”
I’m given a second chance, and I’m not going to hesitate this time. “A porn star martini,” I say. “With lots and lots of passionfruit.”
The stranger shoots me a crooked grin. “Interesting choice.”
“The drink tastes good,” I say defensively, “despite the name.”
“Hmm. Or perhaps because of it?”
To my mortification, a blush rises to my cheeks. I clear my throat and nod to the other side of the bar. “I’ve been thinking about the couple in the back… They’re clearly here for a special occasion. Have you figured out what it is?”
He glances over to the couple. They’re middle-aged, nicely dressed, but look a little out of place. The man shoots a nervous glance at the waiter.
“A proposal?”
My handsome stranger shakes his head and leans in closer. The smell of cologne, faint and masculine, hits me. “It’s his first time having an affair, I bet.”
“Wow,” I say. “If I was reprimanded for ordering a porn star martini, what does this say about you?”
His crooked smile is back. “Noted. Let’s go with a proposal instead. When in doubt, hope for a happy ending.”
I crane my neck. “I hope we’ll get to see it, if it happens.”
He turns to me fully, eyes narrowing, like he’s trying to figure me out. “Now, I’ve been watching you, but you’re harder to crack. From the way you’ve been frowning at your phone, you must be having the world’s most frustrating text conversation. Are you waiting for someone?”
I smile at that. “No, I’ve been trying to write.”
“You’re a writer?”
“Yes,” I say. Or I’m trying to be. But this man—older than me and probably wildly successful—doesn’t need to know that I’m a lowly bookstore clerk with nothing but a half-finished manuscript to my name.
“Would I have read anything you’ve written?”
I smile into my drink. “Probably not, no.”
Not unless he’d been an avid reader of my college newspaper when I’d attended. I’d written some thrilling pieces about the cafeteria’s lack of vegetarian options.
Our drinks arrive and he nods a thank-you to the bartender. His, imposing and worldly. Mine, fruity and orange. I take a sip.
“Better?”
“Much. How come you’ve been watching me?”
“I told you. I like to people-watch.”
The bartender brings over the bill, and the handsome stranger settles it with a wave of his hand. “It’s on me,” he says.
The bartender gives a deep nod. “Of course, sir.”
I frown. “I’d like to pay for my drink.”
“Of course not,” he says. “You didn’t like the first one, so you shouldn’t have to pay for your replacement. It’s rule one of good service.”
“Yes, but that’s for the bar to fix, not you. You’re not the bar owner now, are you?”
Something glitters dangerously in his eyes. “No, I’m not.”
“Exactly.” I cross my legs, conscious of how the fabric rides up, and try to still the quick beating of my heart. Talking to ridiculously good-looking men at expensive bars is wildly unfamiliar to me. This will make for such good writing material! “Don’t think I haven’t noticed what you’re doing, by the way.”
“Oh?” His crooked smile is back. “And what am I doing?”
“You came over to stop a man from buying me a drink, to then insist you buy me a drink instead.”
He runs a hand over his jaw. “It’s that obvious, is it?”
“Fairly, yes.”
“Subtlety has never been my strong suit, I’m afraid.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Is that the true reason you’re here tonight? Not to people-watch, but to pick someone up?”
He laughs then, and the sound is magnificent, rich and strong and alluring. It rolls over my skin like a warm breeze. “Wow, you don’t pull any punches, do you?”
“I’m right?”
“Not exactly, no. I certainly wasn’t planning to. But the more you talk, the more I feel like going down that route, yes.”
Nerves dance in my stomach, but I’m not going to let this chance slip out of my fingers. So I hold out my hand. “In that case, I think a proper introduction is in order. My name is Skye.”
“Skye?”
“Yes,” I say, and have to stop from shuddering in pleasure when his warm hand closes around mine. He shakes it once, twice, three times… “My mom was in her bohemian phase when she had me. The phase ended, but I remained.”
His smile is back. “It’s unique, just like a woman sitting at a bar alone to write.”
“Well, said woman would like to know your name.”
His hand slips from mine with the soft caress of skin against skin. “Cole,” he says. “And since you didn’t add your last name, I’ll skip mine.”
I take another sip of my drink. Liquid courage, Skye. “Isn’t that part of this kind of encounter? Anonymity?”
His eyebrows rise again. “I wouldn’t know. I don’t usually talk to women at hotel bars.”
“Somehow, I doubt that.”
He takes a sip of his drink, the knuckle-length whiskey decreasing by a third. “I had my ideas about you, just from watching you. Judging by your comment, I’m guessing you have some about me.”
“Assumptions?”
“Yes. You’re a self-described people-watcher, after all. So lay it on me.” He leans back, crossing his arms over his chest. Broad shoulders stretch out his suit.
This conversation feels like a tightrope, where I need to place my feet just right to avoid tipping too far to one side or the other. “Well, judging from the cut of your suit and the watch at your wrist, I’d assume you’re well-off. If you’re here alone, like me, and nursing a whiskey… well, I’d guess you were brooding.”
“Brooding?”
“Yes,” I say, ignoring the amusement in his eyes. “Some old wound is eating at you.”
“I wonder what it can be.”
“Oh, it can be anything at all. You’re not divorced, are you? A veteran? An orphan?”
“No, no, and no. But good guesses. I’m enjoying this game. It’s not often I get the chance to hear what a beautiful woman thinks when she sees me.”
Beautiful? I take another sip of my drink to gather my scattered wits, and watch as the amusement in his eyes grows. Oh, he knows what an effect he has on me.
“Go on,” he prompts.
“Well… the bartender seemed to know you. So I guess you’re a regular here.”
He tips his head. “It’s not my first time at this hotel, you’re right.”
“You’re here on a business trip?”
“Of a sort.”
I run my fingers along the edge of the bar. “See? You like the vagueness, just like I like the anonymity.”
If I told him my last name, he could google me to find out just how big of a writer I was, and the only thing that would show up was my most widely circulated article, college student finds hair in the cafeteria food. If I could clear that from the Google archives, I would.
“I suppose I do, yes.”
“And judging from your… well.” I wave a hand over his features. “I’m guessing you’re very used to chatting to women in places like this.”
“Mmm. I’m not sure what you’re referring to, but what I said was true. I don’t often talk to women in hotel bars. If they’re all like you, I’ve clearly been missing out, though.”
That’s the second compliment in only a few minutes. I take another sip of my drink. Is this happening? Am I being picked up?
“You’re staying here?”
“I am.”
I make a humming sound, thoughts in my head running wild with possibilities. It’s already late. If he asks… what should I do?
“You’re thinking too far ahead. I can see it.” Cole nods at my drink. “Have another sip. We’re just having a conversation.”
“Trying to get me drunk?”
“No, but I think you need a bit of liquid courage after having asked me that.” Something glitters in his eyes again, and it steadies me. He’s enjoying this. I’m enjoying this, more than I have in a long, long time. I’ve so rarely been wild. The good daughter, the good sister, the good employee. Occasionally, the good girlfriend.
“Maybe I do,” I say in a low voice. I feel like I’ve donned a different role here tonight. Playing a woman who’s pursued and used to it. A woman who flirts effortlessly with handsome men at bars. A woman who dares.
We talk until the bar is near closing about anything and everything, except ourselves, respecting the boundaries of anonymity and vagueness we’ve established. We debate the best drink on the menu. Whether the blonde woman with the olives is genuinely enjoying herself or merely pretending to. I make a game out of guessing what he works with, and it quickly turns flirtatious. He diverts all my suggestions with a crooked smile, with the exception of astronaut. That one he dismisses with a laugh.
Guest after guest leaves, and we watch as the middle-aged couple filter out hand-in-hand.
“No proposal,” I say.
“No betrayal, either.”
“I’m still wondering if it’s concerning that your mind went straight there.”
He laughs again and holds up ringless fingers. “I’m not married, and I’m not in a relationship.”
“Phew,” I say. “What a relief.”
“And neither are you.” He nods to my hand, and I glance down myself, to find my fingers familiarly empty.
“No. No, very much not.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Very much not? How interesting.”
“Oh?”
“Most people are either married or they’re not. It’s not really measured on a sliding scale.” His smile turns teasing. “I take it you’ve been single for a while, then?”
I bury my face in my hands, giving an exaggerated groan, and he laughs again. A warm hand lands on my bare arm. “Come now, that’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
I peek up at him through my lashes. “I didn’t think so either, but if you can tell by just a glance…”
“Hmm. Well, maybe I saw what I wanted to see.” His thumb moves over my bare skin, sending little electric currents over my flesh. I feel too hot, like I’ve been running or tanning, caught in the depth of his gaze. And all the while his thumb keeps moving, rough skin smoothing over my arm.
“I get that,” I murmur.
“You do?”
“I wanted you to be single too.”
His breath is a hot exhale. “Well, look at that. We’re both conveniently free of any attachments.”
“And we’re both in this big, nice hotel, too.”
“Fancy that,” he says, smiling crookedly again. Can I do this?
I’m saved from answering by the approaching bartender. He gives Cole an apologetic glance. “I’m sorry, sir, but…”
“I understand.” Cole nods at the bartender and stands, knocking back the last of his whiskey. “Thanks for letting us stay later.”
“Not a problem.”
I stand on shaky legs myself, noticing for the first time how much taller Cole is than myself. And the cut of his suit, the lean physique, the powerful shoulders… What have I gotten myself into?
“What do we do now?” I ask.
He shoots me an amused glance. “Well, that depends on you.”
“On me?”
“Yes. I have a room here. If you want to continue our conversation, I’d be happy to. Besides, I have a minibar. I could always mix you another Old-Fashioned if you’re feeling thirsty.”
It’s a straightforward offer disguised as a joke. I laugh, averting my gaze, and use the pause as a chance to think. Do I dare?
His next words seal it for me. “I’m not the asshole you talked to earlier. If you want to leave at any point, you’re very welcome to. If you want us to talk the night away, you say so.” His lips curl into a smile that makes heat pool in my stomach. “Although, I have to say, you don’t seem to have a problem with speaking your mind.”
“I don’t.” I reach for his hand and it wraps strongly around mine. His skin is dry and warm and pleasantly rough. “Lead the way.”
