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I stood to greet her.
“Nat. Nat Levinson. Good to meet you.” I waited for her to sit across from me. As soon as she had, she waved at the small guy cleaning up behind the bar.
“How ‘bout a couple Stellas?” she called.
Looked like I was going to get my beer, after all. My day was definitely looking up. Now if I could keep from falling asleep in this woman’s face, I’d be in really good shape.
“Garnet, your attorney Rick Jones suggested you might be needing some accounting and other financial services. I take it this is your bar?”
Her eyes grew wide. “Oh, god no. I don’t own this dump.” She threw her head back and released a very attractive laugh. My dick twitched a little, which surprised the hell out of me considering the hummer I’d gotten mere hours earlier.
“Well, it’s a cool place,” I said, waving with my beer bottle. “I love places like this. But if this isn’t your place, what is the source of your assets?”
She looked confused for a second, and it occurred to me that maybe Jonesy sent me to her by mistake. I usually worked with people and companies with a lot of money, and who were pretty savvy about using it to get even more—knowledge that I hoped would rub off on me, over time.
“What do you mean?” she asked politely.
Was I wasting my time here? Perhaps, but she was hot, and there was no reason to be an ass to her.
“Sorry Garnet. People hire a firm like mine when they need help managing large sums of money. That’s why I thought maybe you owned the bar. They typically take in a lot of cash.”
She brightened and nodded. “Right. Well, I can tell you that they totally do. But this place isn’t mine. But that doesn’t mean I don’t, I mean, eventually won’t, need your help.”
Chapter 3
Garnet
The accounting guy my lawyer had sent to meet with me was cute, in a straight-laced way—but shouldn’t an accountant look kind of square? I mean, if he came in here looking like a rock star, I’d probably send him packing.
He sucked down the beer I’d gotten him in record time, so I had another brought over. God, I was itching to touch that preppy, close-cropped blond hair that made him look like a more mature Abercrombie and Fitch or Ralph Lauren model. And from what I could tell, under his suit and now-loosened tie, he looked pretty darn buff. My devious plan was to keep feeding him beers so he had to eventually run to the restroom. Then I could get a look at his butt.
Why weren’t guys like this on Craigslist? Damn.
While he was no doubt nice to look at, I wasn’t entirely sure why I was meeting with him. It seemed like the lawyer who’d come to tell me about my inheritance had been premature in recommending an accountant. I mean, if I didn’t meet a husband in the required thirty day timeframe, I’d not get a penny of the five million, and all this would be for nothing. The accountant seemed to know nothing about my situation, having come at the suggestion of Mr. Jones, which was fine with me. I didn’t want him or anyone else to know anything about my potential inheritance. I’d read what happened to people who suddenly came into money. I didn’t want to set the sharks circling a moment earlier than I had to.
“Nat, I can’t really share with you yet why I may be needing your services, but I should know whether or not I will in the next few weeks. Certainly by the end of the month.”
Yup. By the end of the month, I’d know whether I’d be stuck in bartender servitude for the remainder of my life or have the chance to realize my dreams…
“Garnet, can you point me toward the restroom, please?” he asked.
Score!
“Right back that way,” I said, pointing to the door next to the kitchen. I needed to wrap things up, anyway. The happy hour crowd would be filtering in shortly.
But he did give me the chance to watch him walk away, a fact that was not lost on the two regulars at the bar, who laughed and shook their heads at me. I’d be getting shit for that later, for sure.
But I didn’t care. He was well over six feet tall with wide sh
oulders I’d not appreciated until I saw him standing. And while his suit jacket covered most of the goods, I could tell there was a nice, firm butt under his suit pants. I hadn’t seen anyone this nice-looking in a long time. I was clearly hanging out in the wrong places.
Don’t get me wrong. I had great affection for the Drive By Saloon. It attracted locals and other old-timers who loved a bar they felt at home in. In fact, it was one of these regulars who got me in the situation I was in, looking for a husband with fewer than thirty days to spare.
Just three days earlier, the lawyer who’d sent Nat over, Rick Jones, came by the bar. He looked around the place pretty much the same way Nat had—clearly these guys didn’t frequent dumps like this. But Rick took me to one of the booths in the back to sit down and talk about one of the bar’s regulars.
“Garnet, I’m here to tell you your customer, Bill Cordy, recently passed away.”
What? Bill Cordy? Who the hell was that?
