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"Look, I wasn't sure about this, to begin with. And now my gut is telling me to go home."
"I promise, your gut is wrong this time. And mine says I'm starving. Come on—I hate eating alone," he pleaded, his eyes searching my face for signs of me caving in. "Look, I agree the joke I just made was crass. Maybe I was playing the wild musician with lowered morals with what I said, but I'm a good guy."
"You're an ass," I mumbled and tried not to smile. "And I really shouldn't be here with you. I'm going to go home."
"Don't," he demanded. "Please don't," he said, his eyes softening in line with the softer tone he used. "Look, I don't know why, but you seem to bring out the crazy in me."
"Glad it's a guitar you're carrying and not a knife then," I retorted, my wit much faster than my brain until the words were out and I realized I'd made light of his disclosure.
The smile he gave me was different, softer somehow. "Please, Billie, only an hour. We have so much to talk about. And I want to know when your fuckwad ex finally signed those divorce papers."
I stared at him for a long moment, my head pointing out all the red flags: devastatingly handsome, at least ten years my junior, the musician thing he had going on, his dirty comments, which probably meant a dirty mind.
The last thought made me ache because he'd probably had many girls, and I'd only ever had one relationship before Logan.
My two-guy haul of sexual experiences made me a damn boring prospect for any man, never mind Sawyer. Yet, as I stood there facing him, my free will found the courage to egg me on and I relented. What harm could it do to have a coffee?
I nodded. "An hour, but only because I have to hear the story about your sudden change of career."
We walked another two hundred yards in silence then he reached down and took my hand. My gaze dropped to them and the flutter in my stomach made my heart soar. "I meant it when I said your hair suited you, Billie. You look sensational."
"It's just hair."
"No, it's a statement. It says look at me; I'm fucking hot. I'm in control. I am enough."
"Funny, it doesn't say that on the stylist's menu. The wording next to the picture says blow-dry."
"Anyone ever inform you that you're hard work when someone pays you a compliment? Do you know this?"
"Yep, especially hot rock musicians, because I'm highly suspicious as to why you're focusing so much attention on me. I don't know what you think you see, but I'm very boring. So you should back away."
"Oh, no, lady. Not likely. I love a challenge."
"Ah, so that's what I am?" I asked like this was a eureka moment.
"Kind of. That guard you have up this evening is about as welcoming as a pit bull that hasn't been fed for days, for starters." He sighed, looked down at the ground then back up to me. "Look, Billie, I don't know what agenda you think I have, but all I see is a very beautiful woman I'd like the chance to know better."
"Why?"
"Because I'm attracted to you, and the first time I met you I thought you were so fucking hot. Then when we talked a little and I knew what you were going through, I wanted to see you again."
"And throwing down an escort card was your way of guaranteeing I'd find you."
"Jeez, darlin', that card was a joke. I'm not a male escort, I'm a musician. Usually, I'm with my band," he advised me, chuckling. "The way I looked that day was down to my buddy David's crazy idea. He was the best man at our friend Brian's wedding. Two days before I met you, David had made all of us dress up in fancy suits for Brian's bachelor party. The days before that, the fucker tortured me for four hours straight at the beauty parlor. It took a good twelve hours for the redness to die down from all the waxing. He'd had us all hot shaved, gotten us manicures, haircuts, the works. He even had us dress to look the part in that fancy designer wear, right down to our expensive underwear."
Watching how animated he became as he pointed at various parts of his body made me laugh because when I saw the wisps of hair at the top of his chest and his beard, I figured having all that hair removed must have hurt. If his story was even true.
"Our themed night on the town was a scream. We'd all had to pass ourselves off as male escorts and had gone around handing out those cards to pretty girls and handsome guys we met in bars. David, my buddy, had the business cards printed for all of us, but his imagination didn't extend to making the phone numbers up. The cell numbers he put on the cards were our real ones."
"Good grief," I said, chuckling.
" I left the card for you because it had my real number on it. Given the circumstances we had met under, and what had subsequently happened between us, it hadn't felt the right time or the place to ask you for yours. Not knowing what else to do, I'd left that card with you hoping you may call and thank me again … or talk about what we'd done. If you'd called, I would have explained the card then. You can't fault me for not asking for your number that day. I mean, your husband had left the very same place barely five minutes before."
"And there was a girl?"
"Yep," he muttered and shook his head. "Beer goggles should be banned." He sighed and looked ashamed of himself. "I must have been blind drunk when I took her back to the hotel David had booked for us all. The morning after the bachelor party, I was polite toward my pickup but when I tried to walk away she wouldn't leave me alone." He sniggered. "I guess I must have given the performance of my life because she followed me everywhere the day we met. I dunno, maybe she was meant to chase me so that I met you."
"Fate," I scoffed.
