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Zeke sank back in his chair and lifted his drink to the trio. “Have fun at the office.”
Ash slipped five twenties from his wallet and placed them on the table. “Happy birthday, bro.”
He stared at the money. The sight of the fanned-out bills caused the whiskey in his gut to heave.
“Here you are,” server Keith said, sliding a plate in front of him. “Can I get y’all anything else?”
“No, thanks.” Zeke placed the pristine white napkin in his lap and used his fork and knife to cut a thick slice of tenderloin. By the time he lifted his head, he was alone.
The beef all but disintegrated in his mouth. Any other time, he would sigh in carnivorous satisfaction. Not tonight. Tonight, he swallowed the meat with all the excitement of changing a newborn’s hundredth shitty diaper.
But he kept cutting and chewing and swallowing with mechanical efficiency.
He took a sip from his third bourbon.
He drummed his fingers against the table.
His gaze strayed to the woman at the bar, then to Intense Dude. The guy’s seat was empty and a server was clearing away his empty drink.
Back to the woman. He couldn’t figure out why a red ponytail and an uninspired pantsuit would compel his attention, but here he was staring. Again.
This time, he searched the back of her neck and around her jacket collar. No blue lanyard. Normally, once people put those things on, they didn’t remove them until they were rolling their suitcase out of the hotel. Which meant she wasn’t part of the G-con. Relief tumbled through him.
Sensible Shoes took a drink of her fruity cocktail before dropping her reading material into an oversized purse at her feet. After paying her bill, she slid off the stool and turned toward the dining area.
Thick, perfectly arched eyebrows accented wide, catlike eyes. Her full lips were without lipstick and, somehow, the absence captured his interest even more. When his gaze roamed lower, he cursed, unable to assess the rest of her assets in that damn formless business suit.
She scanned the room, as if looking for someone. Her eyes met his, and something shifted inside his chest. Something warm and familiar, though he’d never met her before. He didn’t understand the sensation, but he liked it. A lot.
He nodded, and she smiled in return.
“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you.”
Oh, no. Oh, hell no.
Server Keith, followed by several other similarly uniformed staff, snaked through the dining room, holding aloft a small plate of tiramisu skewered by a single, flaming candle.
Fucking Ash.
“Happy birthday to Zee-eeke. Happy birthday to you!”
Keith set the plate in front of him and waited expectantly.
Sensible Shoes smiled and mouthed, “Happy birthday,” as she breezed past his table.
Disappointment burned his chest. He sat there in indecision. Should he call out to her? Invite her to share his dessert? A drink? Hot stranger sex?
The pressure of four politely impatient pairs of eyes kept his mouth shut and his butt in the chair. He blew out the candle and Keith and friends disappeared.
A harsh breath pushed out of his lungs. Ignoring the tiramisu, he knocked back the last of his bourbon, not even bothering to savor it. He wanted the fire. Needed the lick of alcohol to wake the hell up.
His traitorous gaze kept going to the barstool where Sensible Shoes had sat. The longer he stared, the more he regretted not going after her. Not to hook up, though he wouldn't have said no, but to simply talk to someone who knew nothing about him or his family or his business.
Uncomplicated, no-expectation conversation.
By the time he finished his meal, the mild regret had turned into a full-blown, alcohol-induced flagellation. He signed off on his bill, grabbed what was left of Ash’s whiskey, and began the long journey to his room on the ninth floor.
Alone.
He chinked the air with his glass. “Happy fucking birthday, to me.”
