Saving the CEO (49th Floor #1)(9)
“Mmmm.”
“Well, good. And remember, he’s not the only man in the world. He may be the only thirty-fifth-richest-person-in-Canada man in the world, but a girl can be too picky. The point is, the floodgates are open. Yay!”
Yes, Jack Winter had opened the floodgates. Opened them, ripped them right off the hinges, and splintered them into a million tiny pieces.
…
The next night Jack hardly spoke to Cassie. Thursday marked the beginning of the weekend in some ways, and the bar was much more crowded. He sat on the end stool as had become his new habit, tucked against the wall, but instead of a long stretch of empty stools between him and Miss Alana of the Ants, he was hemmed in by a trio of intoxicated lawyer types out for ladies’ night. Try as he might to work his way through another month of invoices, he couldn’t make his brain perform the necessary steps. So he gave up and turned his attention to the Wexler pitch. How he was going to get through it without Carl was another unanswered question, but at least the work was something he excelled at—figuring out how to get people to do what he wanted them to.
Something rubbed against his arm. Stifling a weary sigh, he raised his eyebrows at his neighbor, a tall blonde in a skin-tight pinstriped skirt suit who had been “accidentally” brushing against him and “accidentally” dropping things all evening. He deployed one of his signature looks. It was designed to convey a certain amount of frostiness, but not so much that could be called impolite. The problem was that Miss Droppy Pinstripes was not responding to his look.
She smiled. He did not.
“What are you drinking?”
He paused long enough that a normal person would understand he was answering reluctantly. “Scotch.”
Then, goddamn if she didn’t reach over, pick up his drink, and take a sip. She scrunched her face up like she’d chugged a glass of roofing tar. “Yuck! Scotch is such a masculine drink! I just don’t see the appeal!” Then she did something he could only describe as simper, though a minute ago he wouldn’t have known what the hell the word meant. He glanced at the glass in front of her on the bar. She was drinking something pink with a whack of fruit in it.
“This isn’t working on me,” he said. Sometimes the direct way was the best.
“Excuse me?” Miss Droppy began blinking rapidly. Oh, shit, was she going to cry? Maybe he’d been too hasty giving up his solo table. There, no one bothered him.
Suddenly there was Cassie, inserting her barely tamed tresses between them, bringing with her a whiff of what he was coming to recognize as her signature scent—it was like vanilla mixed with some kind of spice he couldn’t identify. “Gay,” she stage-whispered to Miss Droppy, hitching her head in Jack’s direction.
“Hey!” he protested, but Droppy’s “Ohhhh!” drowned him out. She shot him a wry smile and said, “Well, that’s a shame.” But then, hallelujah, she turned her back.
“You’re welcome,” said Cassie, winking as she grabbed his empty pitcher—it being crowded, she hadn’t whipped out the big ugly plastic water jug this time. She was halfway down the bar, on to the next thing, before he could really process what had happened.
The rest of the evening passed like that—Cassie dropping in briefly to anticipate a need, or merely to flash him a smile. She was in her element. She looked like a lifer, but not a downtrodden, resigned lifer. It was more that she was somehow the source of the place, its human battery, supplying it with the energy and life it needed to function. She was the tuning fork that kept everyone playing the same song.
She must have lent him some energy too, for he suddenly had a brainwave about how to appeal to Wexler. He would suggest they have the meeting on the island, try to get himself invited over. Maybe the old guy just needed to see Jack’s vision in context. Maybe the truth would be enough, and Carl’s absence wouldn’t matter.
“That bartender would be cute if she lost twenty pounds. Am I right?”
Jesus. It was one of Droppy’s crew. Maybe he’d call this one Perky. She certainly was, but unlike Cassie, that much…endowment on such a skinny frame called to mind plastic surgery. And personally, nothing killed a boner faster for him.
“She has a ruuuulllly pretty face, for sure,” slurred Droppy. “Plump girls always do. But I’d still way rather do Angelina Jolie.”
“I’d rather do one of you guys!” exclaimed the third member of their unholy trinity. He’d call this one Dopey, because, really, didn’t every group need a Dopey? “Seriously! If I had to kiss a girl—ewww!—it would be one of you guys!”
“That’s so nice! Oh my gosh!”
“I would totally kiss you, too!”
All right then, that was his cue. He fished a couple of hundreds out of his wallet and left them. It’s not like he was waiting for something.
Correction—it’s not like he was waiting for something he couldn’t just as easily wait for outside.
By the time she emerged, he was f*cking freezing. Freezing and mad. At what, he wasn’t sure. Though maybe the better question was what wasn’t he mad at? Let us count the ways. To be fair, Droppy, Perky, and Dopey were really just the targets of his rage because they were convenient. The CFO whom he suspected was embezzling him to the tune of several million dollars wasn’t here right now. He was probably in the office “working late.” You know, demonstrating his commitment to the company.