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“They all are,” he says. “Though it is a relief that he doesn’t have shit on me when I was that age.”
The conversation has moved from flirty banter to a more serious tone. But still my martini is pleasantly affecting my state of mind and just looking at Nick is a mood booster, like being in the same room as a particularly impressive work of art. I cross my legs and risk a glance at his while he takes a sip. His thighs are thick in his dark gray suit pants. I’ll bet he never skips leg day.
“Lemme guess,” I say, ripping my attention away from unsuitable places and back to the conversation. “Prep school bully?”
He shakes his head. “Guess again.”
“Football player with a chip on his shoulder?”
“Closer,” he says. “The chip on the shoulder was definitely there. But no organized sports for me. I couldn’t stand anyone telling me what to do.”
“And nothing much has changed,” I venture.
He grins that devilish grin. “Who knows,” he says. “Nobody dares to try anymore.” He cocks his head at me and says, “And I would venture to say that you were a student athlete.”
“Cheer,” I say. “And yes that’s a real sport.”
He raises his hands playfully in defense, eyes twinkling with mirth. “Wasn’t going to claim otherwise,” he says. “Though I would have thought a nice girl like you would have been more into yoga. Or maybe cross country.”
My mouth twists. “You say ‘nice’ so disdainfully,” I say. I feel my earlier annoyance returning. I’m not entirely sure why I’m lingering on this. Why not keep the banter going? But there’s a small part of me (helped along by the booze) that doesn’t care for this implication that I’m naive. Though maybe if I were more jaded I might not have been so blindsided by Brent and Cheryl’s betrayal.
“I won’t apologize,” he says mildly.
“Of course not,” I say. “I suppose you think apologies are weakness.”
“They are,” Nick says. “And just plain bad strategy. Apologies put the ball in the other guy’s court. You’re at their mercy while they decide whether or not to accept or reject it.”
“Whereas bullheadedness guarantees bad feelings,” I say.
“There are bad feelings either way,” he says. He cocks an eyebrow. “Remember the original point?”
“Ah yes, almost everyone is a secret jerk, and those of us who aren’t are stupid.”
“Not stupid, just naive.”
There’s that word. I’m not naive. Niceness isn’t weakness. And even a cynic like Nick wouldn’t have known if his fiancé was fucking his best friend.
Right?
I turn my body away from him, toward the bar, visions of Brent and Cheryl dancing in my head. The annoyance is fully back now, overwhelming the erotic feelings that arose from the palm reading. Nick is charming, funny, and hot, but god what a viewpoint.
“I’m sensing that I’m losing you,” he says. Most guys at this point would be getting defensive or wilting under my encroaching scorn. Nick looks just as relaxed as he had been when he’d first approached me.
“I just think that’d be a pretty crappy way to go through life,” I say. “Always expecting the worst.”
“It’s been justified,” he says.
Okay, now I’m hearing just the mildest hint of defensiveness.
I turn back toward him. “Look around you.”
Nick does. It’s exaggerated without being mocking.
“And what do you see?”
“A beautiful girl sitting at a bar,” he responds immediately.
Again that frank tone. He’s stating a fact as blasély as one would state the time. But there’s a teasing, knowing glint in his deep brown eyes. A suggestion, one that I’m invited to comment on with each statement of his apparent attraction to me.
