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My jaw drops, but then I straighten. “Yeah. And even if I was really sorry, I’m not now!”
A vague grin seems to tug at the corner of his mouth. “Saying something untrue. Isn’t that the definition of lying?”
I’m tempted to throw my second glass of Coke at him, but his hand grips my wrist before I can do anything. How the hell did he move so fast? And why is every nerve in my body on edge? For a moment, I can’t do anything except fix on how firmly his hand holds mine down.
Slowly, he takes the Coke away with his other hand.
“I don’t feel like changing again,” he says, and several seconds pass before he releases me.
I don’t know if it’s anger or something else that has me frozen and unable to pick up the pieces of thought that his touch sent scattering. Part of me wants to walk straight out of the club, but I’m riveted to my spot by his stare. I have to look away if I’m to have a chance at coherent thinking.
“You’re only sorry because you found out I own the place and that I’m JD’s cousin,” he explains.
I bristle because he’s right. If it weren’t for Amy, I wouldn’t have apologized. Not wanting to acknowledge his statement, however, I return, “Is this the sort of happy customer service you dole out here every night?”
“I don’t get doused with Coke from my patrons every night.”
“That only happened because you said what you did to me.”
“I made a mistake. I’m sorry.”
We stare at each for a beat.
“Not really,” I reply.
He raises his dark brows.
“You’re not really sorry,” I parrot back.
His gaze hardens. Maybe he’s the kind who can dish it but can’t take it.
“I gave you drinks on the house, didn’t I?”
I had forgotten that bit. Maybe we should call a truce. I don’t want to be tempted to throw another Coke at him.
“Thank you,” I say. “That was nice of you.”
His expression softens and he slides my soda over to me. “You can have your drink back.”
“I won’t throw Coke at you again. I mean, you deserved it that first time. Even if you thought I was someone else, why would you say such mean things? Didn’t your mom teach you any manners?”
He glances over at the bartender, who looks stunned and worried. I get the feeling no one talks to Mr. Haute Couture the way I just did. I regret letting my mouth run and decide to sip the Coke so I don’t say anything else.
“And your mom taught you it’s okay to throw drinks in people’s faces?” Darren asks.
I take a long sip of my Coke, finishing the drink. “Touché.”
“You can have something fancier than soda.”
I think for a minute and turn to the bartender. “Can you do a Shirley Temple?”
“Dirty?” asks the bartender.
“Hunh?”
“With vodka.”
“No, just a plain Shirley Temple.”
