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He tilted his head. “Why?”
“I don’t know. I’ve just always found a certain type of man orders a certain type of drink.” My eyes pointed to his wrist. “Watches can tell a lot about a person, too.”
“So my watch and telling you what brand of whiskey I’m drinking is going to help you figure out who I am?”
I shrugged. “Maybe.”
He finished what was left in his glass and signaled the bartender, who walked right over.
“What brand did you say this was?” he asked.
“It’s called Hillcrest Reserve. Made about ten miles away from here by a third-generation distiller.”
Beck pushed his glass forward on the bar. “Thank you. I’ll take another when you get a chance.”
Once the bartender walked away, Beck looked to me. “Apparently it’s called Hillcrest Reserve.”
My brows furrowed. “Did you not know that when you ordered it?”
He shook his head. “Nope. I asked if they had any locally made, small-batch whiskey. I like to try local foods and whiskey when I travel. I live in Manhattan. I can walk into any bar and get two-hundred-dollar-a-nip Macallan. But I can’t get Hillcrest Reserve.”
I smiled. “I like that.”
“But you look surprised. I take it my selection doesn’t match the type of man you’d assumed I was.”
“Not really.”
“What did you think I was drinking?”
My smile broadened. “The two-hundred-dollar-a-nip Macallan you can get anywhere.”
Beck chuckled. “And what type of man orders that?”
I took a drink of my wine and set it down. “The kind who lives in Manhattan, works in mergers and acquisitions, and wears a fancy suit and Rolex. Basically every Wall Street douchebag standing outside Cipriani for happy hour on a Friday afternoon.”
Beck threw his head back in laughter. I’d just insulted the guy, and he was amused. “I guess I made a pretty shitty first impression.”
I deadpanned. “You told me I should look someplace morerespectablefor my dates.”
“I thought you deserved better.”
“I think you’re full of shit. You’re only being nice now because you know I was looking for a night of no strings attached, and you think you have a shot at being my replacement.”
“Am I out of the running?”
I took a moment to check him out again.Damn, he’s pretty. “You’re only hanging on by a thread because you’re gorgeous.”
A slow, sexy smile spread across his face. “I like your honesty.”
“I like your jawline.”
His eyes gleamed. “You’ll like my big dick even better.”
I bit my bottom lip. The conversation had just taken a turn toward most of my Tinder messages—definitely a place I was more comfortable than talking about why I wanted to forget my life for a while. “How do I know you’re not a serial killer?”
“How did you know the Tinder loser wasn’t?”
Good point. I sipped my wine. “How old are you?”
