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Wait, what?
For a few awkward beats, my eyes dart between the email he’s tapping out on his phone and the indifferent set of his strong jaw. Realizing this man was younger, taller, and hotter than my average mark sent my thoughts scattering like marbles, and now, I’m clambering to pick them up and put them back in the right order.
I open my mouth and close it again. Confusion soon gives way to warm embarrassment, which then hardens into annoyance.
How fucking rude.
I mean, I’m not a fan of men at the best of times, let alone when they’re being arrogant assholes. Growing up in a casino, and then spending my teens learning how to con the men who frequent them, I realized way younger than I should have that men have two settings: dismissive or predatory.
As much as I’d have preferred a man to dismiss me than prey on me, as my boobs grew and my swindling skills sharpened, I realized I could use their predatory behavior to hit their pockets.
And when I’m trying to hit their pockets, I don’t like being dismissed.
Especially not in Act One.
I set my palms on either side of my glass and glare at the mirrored wall behind the bar.
“I’m not hitting on you.”
“Sure.”
The word trickles from his mouth, easy and final.
“Seriously,” I mutter, cheeks growing hot. “I’d rather shit in my hands and clap.”
The typing stops. Slowly, he lifts his head and meets my gaze in the mirror. Deep-green and intense. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle, and it feels like self-preservation to look away. But as always, stubbornness has me in a choke hold, and I grip the edge of the bar to force myself to maintain eye contact.
“I’m sorry?”
“Apology accepted,” I bite back.
Triumph. It crackles and sparks in the pit of my stomach. But the moment my mark’s phone goes dark and he places it on the table, his heavy gaze extinguishes my smugness like water on a flame.
He slides his forearm off the bar and slips his hand in his pocket. “Say that again.”
For some reason, his tone makes the words oh and shit flash behind my eyelids. It’s buttery and nonchalant. Almost polite. So why do I feel the need to steel my spine when I turn to face him?
Now, I have all of his attention and I don’t like the way it feels against my skin. His green eyes glitter as they roll lazily over my features, and when they meet mine again, a small smile settles on the curve of his lips.
He waits.
“I said, I’d rather shit in my hands and clap than hit on you.”
“Is that right?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I see.”
And with that, he takes a sip of whiskey and turns back to his email. As his fingers fly over the on-screen keyboard, it’s as if we never had the exchange at all.
From the corner of the bar, Dan clears his throat. Blood thumps in my temples.
Now what?
Act One has gone up in flames. I forgot my lines and my mark is a bad actor. I need to start the show from the top but with a different cast. Oh, and definitely a different script, because I don’t think the toilet talk works.
Trying to act natural, I turn away from the bar and prop my elbows up on its surface behind me. I subtly glance around the room, sizing up all the other men I could have chosen over this asshole. Absent-mindedly, my fingertips brush over the four-leaf clover hanging around my neck.
