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“Hi.” He smirks and holds out his hand for me to shake.
I freeze in the moment and take in his features. His hair is cut close to his head, and I would take him as military if I glanced at him on the street. The dark brown blends nicely with his darker skin, giving him the whole tall, dark, and handsome trifecta. It takes me a minute to overcome the embarrassment of choking, and I finally reach out to grab his hand.
“You okay?”
“H-Hi.” I clear my throat and—very, very carefully—take a drink to wash down what spit was left. “Um, yes, I’m fine. Thank you.”
“No problem. So, cosmo, huh?” He snags the chair beside me and gives the bartender his order: a Guinness, of course. Why does that fit him so perfectly?
“Well, yes. I like cosmos…is that bad?” I raise a sarcastic eyebrow, trying to get him to argue with me.
“No, no, not bad per se, but not a real drink, either.” He takes a long swallow of his beer and stares me down.
“Not a real drink? It’s vodka.” I quirk an eyebrow to challenge what he’s saying.
“Sure, sure. I mean, it’s juice with a splash of vodka.”
I scoff but laugh. His sense of humor is a good sign. “Okay, whatever you say, but I’m not one to change my drink of choice just because some guy didn’t like it.”
He raises an eyebrow, and I can’t tell if he’s offended or impressed, but I try to keep an impassive face so he can’t tell I was bluffing. “I like that. Good for you.” He smirks and looks around the restaurant, which is continually getting fuller. “I was imagining dinner a bit differently, like actually getting a table.” He laughs a little, and it almost sounds nervous.
Is the hottest guy alive nervous to be on a date?
“We serve the full menu right here if you want to order something,” the hipster bartender informs us.
I look at Dan, give him a smile, and shrug. “I don’t mind eating here.”
Looking skeptical, he replies, “Are you sure? It’s not exactly what I had in mind.”
“No, it’s totally fine.” I sound overeager and silently chastise myself.
“Okay then, garçon, two menus please.” Dan uses a goofy voice, and I can see he regrets it the second he does it by the flinch on his face.
And here I thought I was the odd one.
“So, what do you do, Margaret?” Dan asks after we’ve given our orders to the bartender. We were silent while we browsed the menu, and I couldn’t stop watching him out of the corner of my eye. The tick in his jaw, his sleeve up pushed over his forearm, the clearing of his throat—all of it made me squirm.
It either means I am insanely attracted to him, or it’s just been a long time.
How about both? my inner voice tells me, but I shoot that bitch down with a swallow of my drink then I clear my throat to answer him. “Uh, I work in retail.” I hate my answer. I hate it when anyone asks what I do for a living because it’s not the answer I ever want to give.
I want to say something different like, Oh, I’m just a lawyer. Then I’d laugh lightly like I’m bashful about having this wonderful career, waving my hand at their gushing compliments. A lawyer?! But you’re so young!
Alas, when I tell people I’m in retail, I get the sympathetic nod, the Oh, well…you still have time.
It grates on my last nerve, mostly because I absolutely hate my job.
“Yeah? You like that?” Liam asks. He’s so intense when he’s talking to me, maintaining eye contact, not paying any mind to anyone around us, and it makes me feel like the most important person in the world.
“Uh…” I hesitate, trying to find something positive to say, and then I relax my tense shoulders and give him a bland look. “No.” I laugh a little like it’s funny and am rewarded with a sexy grin from him. “Not at all.” As I shake my head, my fingers play with the napkin under my drink, and I wait for him to change the subject to something easier to talk about.
“Why not?”
I look at him again. “Well, frankly, it’s terrible.” I frown when I think of all the things I hate about it; the list is too long to recite completely, but I pick a few. “People are rude. They always go through the clothes like it’s a never-to-happen-again sale only to throw them back on the table and walk away. They’re all so entitled, too, like I’m somehow less than them because I work in retail—which I guess I am.”
“You’re not, though,” he replies. “People suck. That’s the sad truth, and most people don’t even realize when they are talking to someone extraordinary.”
I blush a little and look back at my drink, unable to hold his intense stare, crinkling my eyebrows. Does he think I’m extraordinary?
