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“Are they even allowed to do that in here?” Enzo asks, echoing my thoughts exactly.
“Apparently. I’ll admit I’ve never seen it happen before.”
I’ve been coming to Finnegan’s since I moved to SoHo three years ago. It doesn’t draw much of a tourist crowd—its typical patrons are locals looking to toss back a few beers.
“Hey, good for them,” Enzo says, turning around to head back to the bar.
I’m about to join him when a flash of blond hair catches my eye.
“No fucking way.”
Enzo stops next to me. “What is it?”
“You have got to be shitting me.”
It’s her.
She’s handing a drink to the woman who sat next to her at the meeting. I watch, still a little bit in shock, as she pulls something off her wrist. Lifting her long, sun-kissed locks up, she twists them around until her hair is piled on top of her head in a bun.
Very Lauren Conrad-ish.
I can tell she has a few in her. The hard-edged, all-business woman from a few days ago has been replaced by a white sundress-wearing goddess who is as out of place here as she was in the office.
I find myself wondering, again, where she’s from.
“Holy shit, what are the chances?” Enzo says.
“Pretty good actually.”
Like I said, big city, small circle.
The policeman seems to notice her too. As soon as he finishes gyrating on the bride-to-be’s lap to the song pumping out of a jukebox in the corner, he turns toward Ada.
“Come on.” Enzo taps me on the shoulder, but I don’t move. I can’t.
A new song comes on, and I recognize the Gipsy Kings immediately. They’re one of my favorite bands and not typically played in this particular pub. Of course the stripper guy can move his hips to the Latin sounds, but apparently he’s not content to dance for the crowd.
He’s got my project manager firmly in his sights.
One arm pulls her in, and although I’d pegged her for the kind of buttoned-up woman who doesn’t dance, she starts swaying her hips to the tune without missing a beat, eliciting cheers from her friends.
“Hayden . . .”
There’s no way I’m moving now. As I watch, mesmerized, Ada circles into him, making me wonder where she learned to move like that.
If I continue watching, I’m going to get even more uncomfortable in a few seconds than I am right now. Enzo says my name again, his tone laced with warning, and for once I do the smart thing and start to turn away.
Except that’s when she sees me.
And what does the minx do?
Pretend she doesn’t know me?
Look away?
Sneer at me?
Any of those reactions would have been preferable, but nope.
