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Smoke
Isipped my Scotch as I sat at the bar and glanced at my watch. Lydia said she’d be a few minutes late, as the flight our clients had been on was delayed and sitting out on the tarmac waiting for a gate. I still had about twenty minutes to kill before they arrived.
I scanned the bar area, wondering if there was anyone I knew I could shoot the shit with, but I didn’t recognize anyone. Most of them were young people in their mid-twenties drinking fru-fru drinks and doing shots called Buttery Nipple, G-Spot, and Piece of Ass. What happened to the days of whiskey or even tequila?
I pulled out my phone, deciding to keep to myself and answer a few emails as I waited. I squinted at my screen. Damn, I needed to get to the eye doctor and check my eyes. Not that I needed glasses often, but in low light with small fonts, it reminded me that I was now forty-two. Wasn’t forty that magical age where they said your eyes started going?
“Is this seat taken?” A female voice asked just as I began to reply to an email I had ignored for days.
I responded without even looking her way. “No, it’s not. Help yourself.”
“Thank you,” she replied in a voice too soft and meek for my taste. From the corner of my eye, I watched her begin to shift into the seat, and she brushed my arm. I leaned away to give her more room as the stools were jammed into the space. Just as she seemed to be about to seat herself, her footing slipped, and I turned just in time to grab her by the shoulder as she practically fell into my lap.
Her gaze jumped to mine, and a jolt of something shocked my system. The woman with the meek voice had beautiful brown eyes, almost the color of the liquor in my glass. For a few seconds, the two of us stared at each other, and I briefly wondered if she was feeling the same thing I was. A boisterous laugh off to my side reminded me that our faces were mere inches apart, and while I was happy to keep staring at her, we were in public. “I said that stool was available. This one is occupied.”
Her cheeks began to color as she jerked back. “I am so sorry. My foot slipped on the edge of the stool.”
I chuckled as she gnawed on her bottom lip and got herself situated in her chair, setting a small black purse on the bar in front of her. “I really am sorry. Can I at least pay for your drink as an apology?”
“It’s already paid for, but thanks for the offer.”
She peered nervously my way, her cheeks still a bit colored, and I studied the lines of her face. She had pronounced cheekbones but not model-worthy—not that she wasn’t pretty. She was very attractive, but I wasn’t generally attracted to brunettes or women who blushed.
To me, women who got embarrassed that easily were unsure of themselves and naïve. I wasn’t interested in naivety at this point in my life. I wanted a woman who knew what she wanted and went for it.
“Well, thank you for catching me and not letting me make more of a fool of myself than I already have.” She gave her attention to the bartender. “Can I have Woodford Reserve, please?”
I raised a brow, and I glanced at her again. “Woodford Reserve. I didn’t peg you for the whiskey type.”
She turned in her seat slightly. “Yeah, and why is that?”
I shifted so I could face her a bit more, taking in the neckline of her burgundy blouse that accented her eyes and gave me a hell of a view of her cleavage. “Because most people these days drink modern drinks, like martinis and daiquiris. The days of whiskey neat, gin and tonics, Manhattan’s, are old news.”
She let her eyes skim over the back of the bar as she spoke. “I prefer something more elegant, although I sometimes enjoy a Sidecar or a Tom Collins,” she replied as she focused on me. “There is something very soothing about the smooth taste of a good whiskey. It comforts the soul and helps you relax.”
I was intrigued by the woman with the whiskey eyes. “You need to relax?”
She laughed softly, the husky sound unexpected coming from her lips. “Don’t we all need to relax?”
I shrugged a shoulder. “I guess.”
“What do you do to relax?” She asked, and I leaned back and studied her for a moment.
“You’re not a prostitute trying to pick up a John, are you?” The minute those words were out of my mouth, I wished I could take them back, and I opened my mouth to apologize as she began to laugh and shook her head quickly.
“No, I most certainly am not that. My husband would find that rather amusing.”
Husband? I glanced at her hand. There were no rings. “Why would he think that was funny?” I couldn’t help but ask.
The bartender set her glass in front of her. I pointed at the cash on the bar before me for him to take the payment. He nodded and removed a ten-dollar bill from the pile.
“You didn’t need to buy my drink. I am quite capable.” She gave me a pointed look with one of her brows raised, and I couldn’t deny that I found that rather sexy.
“You can buy the next one.”
She chuckled, lifted her drink, held it out to me briefly, and then tossed back the entire glass. I watched in amazement as she set the glass down and nodded to the bartender, who had just put the change back on my pile.
I watched her dig around in her purse for a moment, wondering if she would answer my question, and it wasn’t until her next whiskey was in front of her that she lifted it to her lips, paused, and said, “He thought I was boring and frigid in bed. He announced that in the middle of a restaurant on our anniversary.” She turned those sexy liquid brown eyes toward me. “How can someone say that in public after ten years of marriage?”
