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As his eyes fall upon me, I can feel him scanning me from head to toe. A slight smile reaches his eyes and for a moment it feels as if he’s recognized me from somewhere. His gaze, when it rests on to my eyes, is piercing, and I stand like a statue. I’m unable to move as heat leaps inside me when he comes closer. His eyes are dark. I can’t tell whether they’re black or brown, as my eyes are focused on his full lips. They’re slightly parted. As lips are when initiating a kiss. I’m drawn in by his magnetism and then he shakes my hand. Sparks fly.
“Hello. I'm David,” he says in that well-manicured British accent.
“Me too... I mean, I'm Carrie.” I shake my head and snap myself out of dirty thoughts. Good job Carrie! Great way to make a first impression. David’s smile expands into a grin — a gorgeous grin — when Shauna spoke up.
“So, David, Carrie’s gonna follow you around for a couple of days. She’ll write this piece on you and make you look like a saint and whatnot. You know the whole deal.” Shauna lights a cigarette.
“That sounds ... lovely,” His gaze is fixed on me. “Perhaps we can go discuss it some more. Would you care for a drink?”
Before I can answer, he’s already leading me off to the side, away from Shauna and the pool. The other side of the patio leads to a massive garden where there’s a long bar in the corner. People greet David as he walks through, like a lion stalking through his domain. A couple of folks empty the stools they’re sitting on as David gestures at them to make space.
“After you.” He pulls out one stool and gestures with his hand.
“Thank you.”
“Two single malts,” he tells the bartender. Single Malts? At least ask me what I drink!
“I don’t drink whisky,” I say. A look of astonishment comes over his face as if he never heard anyone utter that phrase before.
“What kind of person doesn’t like a single malt on a beautiful day like this?”
“The kind of person who has come to a work meeting,” I retort.
“You call this work?” he laughs.
“Yes. This is work,” I wish I could’ve come up with a better comeback but my growing resentment is freezing my brain.
“All right,” he chuckles dismissively. “How are we going to go about it?”
Just as I’m about to speak, a well-built African American man interrupts.
“David, my man!”
“There he is! The birthday boy,” David gets up and hugs him.
“Thanks for letting me have the party here, man. This is off the charts!” He fist bumps David.
“Anything for you, mate. And Willie, this is Carrie.”
“Hello ma’am. Willie Bryant of the Anaheim Knights. Don’t let this guy take advantage of you.”
“Carrie Tucker.... of Coyote magazine,” I smirk.
“A journalist. Nah, you look too nice to be a journalist.” He smiles good-naturedly.
“But I am!” I laugh. “Not all of us are so bad.”
“That remains to be seen,” David mutters, almost under his breath. The man is incorrigible.
“Bartender, three shots of tequila,” Willie shouts.
“Not for her. She doesn’t drink,” David corrects him.
“Oh, come on! You gotta have one, it’s my birthday,” Willie protests and hands over a shot.
“Happy sweet sixteen, Willie,” David says and downs his in one.
“If only, if only.”
