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I decide to go to the bar down the street from the office for two reasons: One, I can walk there after work, and two, leave my car safe and secure in the parking garage in case I have to take an Uber home. I trek into the crowded bar searching for a place to sit and wallow in my despair. Not a single table was available. Groups of people gathered for happy hour fill the spaces along the perimeter while the center has a few high tables and a good-sized section for dancing, leaving me to survey the bar area in hopes to find a seat and not conversation. My scan is halted when I find a vacant barstool, but sitting right beside it is my rival, Lucas Weathers. I contemplate leaving and calling it a day since I have plans with my mother tomorrow, but the weight of disappointment is too heavy to cast aside. I swallow my pride and casually walk towards the empty seat. Upon my approach, I see Lucas has two empty glasses in front of him and is nursing a third.
“I’ll have a double vodka with a twist of lime and splash of cranberry juice,” I say to the bartender.
The tall, slender, and attractive young woman prepares my cocktail and places it in front of me. The first sip is to make sure it’s right, the second one is to begin my meditation, followed by a deep sigh.
“Your proposal was really good, if I may say,” Lucas speaks before pulling another sip from his glass.
I could be the catty bitch he’s used to, but considering all that transpired today, I choose not to. “Thanks. Yours was quite amazing. You hit points I forgot to mention.” I reply.
“Who the fuck are we kidding, they both were. But Armstrong gives it to—”
“Paul- Fucking-Edwards!” I exclaim, my face distorted with disgust.
We look at each other and burst out in loud laughter. I finish off my drink and call for a refill.
“Here, let me get that,” Lucas interrupts. “You know what, put all drinks on my tab. We have a lot of talking to do.”
The bartender looks to us and offers a smile, but my look to her is anything but complimentary.
I turn to my adversary and ask for an explanation. “So, what do we have to talk about?” I take a sip of my drink and give my thumbs-up.
“Simone, why do you hate me so much?” he retorts, wasting no time jumping into the fire.
“I don’t hate you, per se. I just strongly dislike you.”
“Okay. Why?”
“You walk around like you are the king of money management, and your mere arrogance repulses me.” I down my drink after I lay my words on the table and call the bartender for another. After all, he’s paying.
“Ouch. Save some of my heart for me, Greene. Shit.” He chortles.
“I’m sure you have some not-so-nice words for me.”
“Nope.” He swallows the last of his drink and signals for a refill.
“Oh, come on. We go at each other like champion fighters. Certainly, you have something to say.” I partake my drink and wait for his reply.
Silence falls between his lips, and when I look at him, his gaze is fixated on me. His eyes are soft, and I notice the tone of bright gray that reflects in his pupils. He has scruff adorning his well-chiseled jawline, and his hair is not its usual coiffed style. Has he always been this fine, I think to myself? A rush of heat overtakes me, and I stand to pull my cardigan off. The straps of my bra and cami fall from my shoulder, and out of instinct he assists with helping them up. The soft touch of his fingers mingling with my warm brown skin sends electrifying pulses through my body. He’s slow to remove his hand from its place and flashes a shy smile when he does.
“I’m sorry. I saw the straps fall and didn’t want you to have an embarrassing wardrobe malfunction.” He chuckles a bit, and I cast him a smile. “Oh, she can be soft, and she has a beautiful smile.”
“Oh, wow. Flattery? That’s how you come for me?”
He declines to respond, but there is something sexy and inviting in his eyes. “I tell you what. Let’s play a game,” he requests.
“What kind of game?” I ask, tilting my head to the side in an inquisitive manner.
He signals for the bartender.
“Ready for another round?” she says upon arrival.
“Bring me two shot glasses, a fresh chilled bottle of Patron, a tray of limes, and salt.”
I look at him quizzically but intrigued, nonetheless. “Ooo a shot game.” I’m never one to back down from a challenge. “What are the rules?”
“Twenty-one questions. No right or wrong, just answers. We start with a toast, then we let the games begin.”
