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Then again … She tilted her head and took in the serious expression, the polished shoes, and the perfectly shaven jaw. Grace had been dead right. A man like this was just screaming for a little woman by his side.
If she played her cards right, he’d be eating out of her hand by midnight.
“Name?” Julie asked distractedly.
“Mitchell something. Ford? Forbes?”
Mitchell. It was so … yawn.
The man in question gave Allen a bland smile that did absolutely nothing to her lady bits. This man was a movie night waiting to happen.
Julie allowed herself a small victory smile.
Mitchell Ford-slash-Forbes was absolutely perfect.
Chapter Three
A bored-looking bartender pushed glasses across the makeshift bar, and Mitchell resisted the urge to ask if he could get something stronger than wate
red-down whisky. As if reading Mitchell’s thought, the bartender dumped another scoopful of half-melted ice into the glasses.
Perfect. Just perfect.
Out of habit, Mitchell fished a five out of his wallet for a tip, then grabbed the two glasses. He handed one to his ever-jovial colleague, Colin.
Halfheartedly Mitchell clinked his glass against Colin’s. “Here’s to fucking fund-raisers. And thanks, by the way. I owe you one for rescuing me.”
Colin Trainor took a sip of whisky and nodded in acknowledgment. “Just promise you’ll do the same for me someday. I’d rather listen to my aunt Yvonne discuss proper enema technique than get caught in a conversation with Allen Carsons. That man’s one Los Angeles bush away from becoming a stalkerish paparazzo. What did he want with you, anyway?”
Mitchell shrugged. “About what you’d expect. Details on my breakup with Evelyn.”
“Guess that’s what you get for dumping the daughter of our country’s most popular senator.”
“I didn’t dump Evelyn. We just went our separate ways.”
“Irreconcilable differences and all that?” Colin asked.
Extreme boredom, actually. “Something like that,” he replied noncommittally. Mitchell wasn’t often inclined to spill his guts. Not to lowbrow reporters, and not to gossip-prone colleagues. Not that Colin was a bad guy. They were even friends of a sort. But the occasional after-work beer didn’t exactly warrant personal confidences. At least not in Mitchell’s book.
Colin drained his whisky and frowned at the glass. “What was in this, whisky essence? And remind me again what we’re doing here. I don’t get art on the best of days, but this weird modern shit is over my head. I’ve taken dumps more attractive than some of these displays.”
Silently Mitchell agreed. He enjoyed museums. Even art museums. But MoMA in all of its sleek, modern splendor was his least favorite museum in the city. He’d take the quiet dignity of the Frick Collection on Fifty-Ninth Street over the flash of MoMA any day.
“At least this should fulfill our quota for the year,” Mitchell said.
Robert Newman, CEO of Newman and Chris, the firm where Colin and Mitchell were senior partners, insisted that the company have representation at all charitable functions for which Newman and Chris was a sponsor. Mitchell had chosen tonight as his contribution only because the Yankees had a travel day. And because he could get behind educational charity more than some of the fluffier causes Robert supported.
“At least there’s some decent tail here,” Colin said, his eyes on the backside of a woman who couldn’t possibly have graduated from college yet.
“Tail? What is this, a dockside brothel?”
“Spoken like a man who’s been in a relationship since his balls dropped.”
“Hyperbole doesn’t suit you.”
Colin signaled the bartender for two more drinks. “Seriously, man, when was the last time you dated a girl just for the fun of it?”
“Evelyn and I had fun.” Sort of.
