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That makes her laugh. “Yes.”
“Dammit!”
“Do you not like bow ties?”
“I mean—they’re fine, but they don’t get me wet.”
My eyes get wide at the admission, I hadn’t meant to say anything sexual—at least not within earshot of other people, like the dude sitting next to me or the bartenders behind the counter.
And.
I hadn’t meant to say wet the way I said wet.
Miriam isn’t bothered by it in the least. “Bow ties are not for everyone.”
Hmm.
Is she actually talking about bow-ties or does she mean something else or am I just overthinking her raised brows and flushed cheeks?
Dang it Ari, get your mind out of the gutter. She is his matchmaker! She’s not thinking about sex right now, she’s trying to find the guy a girlfriend. He is paying her!
“No, bow ties are not for everyone.” Not all of the time, and only on certain occasions, apparently.
Miriam has her legs crossed at the ankles and I wonder why she got so dressed up tonight when essentially, she was here to entertain me, not wine and dine me. Were I in her place, I might have worn jeans and a cute blouse, not a form-fitting dress that shows off my curves.
“So, what about you?” She has her own story to tell. “Are you single?”
Miriam nods. “Yes, I’m single. I would ask if you are but I already know the answer.” She leans forward and narrows her eyes. “You are single, aren’t you?”
“Ha.” I tease. “Yes, of course.”
“Good. Because I wouldn’t want to set my client up with a woman who’s not.”
The sentence hangs in the air the same way her perfume does—and mine—lingering. Tempting me to rebut it. Tempting me to tell her I’m already bored with the idea of dating Decker, he and I won’t have the same chemistry she and I have.
Sorry not sorry.
Guess he should have shown up when he had the chance.
His loss.
I busy myself by pulling off a hunk of bread, then dip it in the olive oil and vinegar, chewing slowly while Miriam watches me, neutral expression on her face.
It’s obvious I’m older than she is by at least eight years, not that age matters. And it’s obvious there are thoughts going through her head she isn’t likely to share; at least, not tonight.
“Do you have any pets?” I ask.
“Yes, actually. I have a pug named Ravioli.”
I grin. I love pugs. “That’s the cutest name.”
“Thanks, but—he’s a monster. Kind of like your dachshund.”
Ahh, she remembered, of course she did, considering it was her on the other end of the conversation and not Decker.
“What else are you into? As far as hobbies go.”
“Hmm. I don’t know, to be honest. I work a lot because I’m trying to quit all my side-hustles to focus on my day dream. Sometimes I feel like I’m running around like a chicken with my head cut off.”
