Thank You for Listening(14)

“I wouldn’t if I were you. It’s chicken salad day.”

“I love you, Blah. See you Monday.”

“Love you, Dollface. Now go have fun. You’re only young and beautiful once. Make the most of it.”

“We’ll see–”

“Do it, Swan!” There was a pause. “When can I see you?”

Sewanee took a patient breath. “How about Monday?”

“What’s today?”

“Saturday.”

“Perfect! Though, fair warning, Monday’s chicken salad day.” She made kissing sounds into the phone and hung up.

The waitress appeared with the bill (tucked like a bookmark into a real hardcover–Jane Eyre, she noted) and Sewanee thanked her. She took another sip, leaned over the low table, opened the book, and heard, from above: “Hi.”





Chapter Five


“The Notorious Rake”

SHE LOOKED UP. A RATHER STRIKING MAN STARED DOWN AT HER, hands on his hips. “Uh. Hi.”

“You can’t be leaving. We just met.”

Now that was a smile. It rendered the cheesy line charming.

Oh, God. Swan wasn’t ready for this. This lanky-limbed, broad-shouldered, tanned-wrinkles-at-the-corners-of-his-eyes, eight-o’clock-shadowed, tall-iced-unbrella’d-cocktail of a man.

She made a point of looking back at the bill, but he said, “May I?” and before she could answer, he sat down on the opposite end of the long chesterfield, leaving a respectful distance between them. “Cheers,” he said, and for a stupid moment she thought he was toasting her. But when she looked up at him, he was gazing out into the room. “It’s crowded, yeah?” And she realized he hadn’t been toasting her; he was British. Cheers as in: thanks. Cheers as in: I don’t need your permission, but I’m a gentleman so I asked anyway. Cheers as in: buckle up, toots.

Sewanee returned to the bill, but he loomed in her peripheral. She took a swig of her drink and set it down.

He signaled to the waitress. He unbuttoned the jacket of a nice suit. He loosened his oxblood tie. He shifted his body toward her, tucking one foot behind the opposite knee, throwing an arm over the back of the couch. He moved with a feline simplicity, a traffic cop expertly directing cars in multiple directions, all while asking, “What are you drinking, then?”

Hearing more of the accent, Sewanee revised her previous assessment. Irish.

Maybe she’d been jaded by men like Chuck and Jimbo and the others that came before them, but her defenses were up. So she adopted the accent of the girl at the panel, giving herself some distance, some cover. “Gin.”

“A dry gin, it seems.”

She glanced at her glass on the table in front of her. It was empty. She’d finished it.

“Vegas bars. Charging for air.”

Sewanee bit back the grin she felt beginning. She sought something else to focus on. There were only so many times she could examine a bill. But then Mr. What-the-Hell-Is-Happening asked, “What would you say to a quick drink?”

“Actually,” she began, uncrossing her legs only to cross them again, this time away from him, “I have to–”

“It’s all I’m good for.” The waitress appeared. “Seriously.” He gave the waitress that smile. “What’s the news, lass?” Then, back to Sewanee, “Gin martini, is it?”

The waitress picked up Sewanee’s glass. “She’s actually having the Last Word.”

He looked at Sewanee. Directly at her. “As she should. And so shall I.”

The waitress paused. “You know what it is, right? I mean, she’s the first person to order it in months. It’s–”

“Equal parts green Chartreuse, lime juice, and maraschino liqueur–do you use Luxardo? The Luxardo family’s been making it since 1821–oh, and one of their little black cherries for garnish.”

Sewanee grinned to cover her surprise and drawled, “You forgot the gin.”

“Just giving you the last word.”

This guy’s smirk put a young Harrison Ford on notice.

Sewanee passed her the signed receipt, including an excessive happy-holidays-someone-else-is-paying tip, and the waitress said, “Carter will bring them right out.”

She left and Sewanee sat back on the couch, deciding to enjoy this, whatever this was. “You’re good.”

“Engh, I’m an arse, I promise, just wait.”

Maybe it was his easy manner. Maybe it was the broad chest underneath that dress shirt. Maybe it was the accent, even for her, someone who could do the accent herself. Maybe it was as simple as a nice man in a nice suit. There were a few reasons this was working for her.

But why was it working for him? Why had he chosen her? She realized her hair had fallen forward in a way that obscured her eye patch. She hadn’t done it intentionally. What was intentional, however, was how she deliberately pushed her hair back now. She faced him head-on, hiding nothing, challenging everything.

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t blink. He just smiled again. “So, whaddaya say we get to know each other a wee bit?” He gazed out into the bar and said, dryly, “Or we can find the nearest chapel, as you’re obviously mad for me.”

She snorted.

“Right, I’ll go first. Here’s what you’ll be wanting to know.” He shifted his body in a way that effortlessly brought him closer to her. “I’m flying to Dublin in three hours. My bag is checked with the host and I’m happy to show you the claim ticket, if you wish. That takes care of any possible funny business. I’m here for one drink with a beautiful woman to distract me from the disaster that was today. Las Vegas is supposed to be craic, yeah? Well, I’ve been here thirty-six hours and it’s been absolute shite for the entirety of them.”