This was the most embarrassing moment of my life.
“I’ve gotta get back tothat.” She gestured to the crowd in the middle of the bar. “But here’s my number, you should call me some time.”
She slid a napkin across the bar and gave me a warm smile before walking away. I picked it up to find her name and number engulfed in a heart.Eva.
Avalanche whistled. “I’ve been trying to get her number for months, but you just walk in, and she hands it right over.”
I was sure my face was still bright red, but I levelled him with a glare.
“It’s called being adorable. You should try it some time.”
He laughed. Fucking damn it, he didn’t need to be adorable—that sexy laugh probably got him all kinds of admirers.
“You still haven’t answered me. Can I sit?” And polite, too—the total package.
“Um… I was waiting for— You gave— Sure.”
He pulled the stool back and sat. “Oh, Weave reached out? I wasn’t sure he would.”
I was glad he could piece my thoughts together because I certainly couldn’t.
“A heads up about that would have been nice. I nearly had a heart attack last night. I barely slept.”
“He’s harmless. Well, to you. The guy who’s been eyeing you since you walked in… He’s probably in danger.”
I followed his gaze to a skinny guy in the corner. He looked relatively harmless until I met his eyes. There was something about the way they darkened that made my skin crawl. I looked back at the two remaining shots. Maybe I would leave those, I’d need a clear head for my walk home.
“Yes, I stayed up all night researching him. That’s the only reason I’m here.”
“A few others have…asked about you. Would you be willing to meet some more?”
“Um… Can I see how this goes?”
He nodded, a little smile growing on his face.
“I think that’s a great idea.” He noticed someone behind my shoulder. “I’ll be around, just in case. Your guest just arrived.”
“Does he know about…?” I trailed off gesturing to his hair.
“No. I’d appreciate if this could be our little secret.” He winked before grabbing one of my drinks and disappearing into the crowd.
Asshole. He’d be paying me back for that one.
“Miss Hayes?”
I turned to find a middle-aged man standing behind me. He wasn’t exactly what I’d pictured when I read about The Weaver. He was short—maybe two inches taller than me—tamed brown hair but you could tell it normally wasn’t—strands were already trying to break free of the gel—and squinty brown eyes. He wore a light-blue dress shirt and black jeans.
“Hi, Mr. Um… Sorry, what should I call you?”
He smiled warmly; his eyes basically disappeared with his squint.
“You can call me John.”
“Does that mean we’re friends?” I smiled in return.
“I sure hope we will be, Miss Hayes.”
5
