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This time when she laughs, it’s a feminine giggle, and I get lost in the wrinkles her cheeks make when she smiles so brightly. Her elbow is propped on the bar and she rests her head on her palm, turning toward me and letting her gaze settle on my face as I cover my waffles with syrup.
“You’re going to watch me eat now?”
“It’s either that or fall asleep?”
“Well then, by all means.” With a smile, I lift a hefty bite to my mouth and hum as the sugary sweet syrup hits my taste buds. “Want a bite?” I mumble with my mouth full.
She snickers again.
After a sip of coffee, I start cutting up another bite and glance toward her as I ask, “So, what do you do? What kind of work keeps you up all night?”
“I work at a nightclub. It usually closes at four, but last night was busy, so we stayed open. Which meant I couldn’t leave until almost seven. My boyfriend stayed behind to close up.”
I swallow down more coffee and a stinging sense of disappointment.
“You need some rest,” I reply because I suddenly don’t know what else to say. I feel blindsided by this news of a boyfriend, which is ridiculous. This girl is not my type—boyfriend or not.
“No kidding, but the real kicker is that I know I won’t be able to fall asleep. I hate sleeping during the day.”
“Then I don’t think the night shift is wise for you.”
With a huff, she shrugs. “I know. It’s ridiculous.” Almost like a sign from God himself, she lets out a yawn, covering her mouth with her elbow.
“So, tell me about this club of yours. Is it fun?”
A throaty-sounding laugh nearly makes her choke on her coffee. I’m not even sure why I asked that. I have a suspicion I’m subconsciously trying to prolong her stay, even though it’s clear she should pay her tab and go home to sleep.
“It’s not really your type,” she replies, blotting her face with her napkin.
My head snaps toward her after taking a bite of my potatoes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Her fingers pinch at her bottom lip as she stares at me with a devious smile. “I mean…look at you. You’re not a club kind of guy. When was the last time you went to one?”
I feign offense. “Are you calling me old?”
“Not at all,” she replies. “I’m calling you…conservative.”
“Still offended,” I reply with a laugh.
“This club is…not for conservatives.”
“Is it a strip club?” I whisper, leaning so close I can smell the flowery scent in her hair.
“No,” she whispers, leaning even closer.
I notice that as we both pull apart, we do so slowly, almost begrudgingly. Is it just me? She’s really flirting with me, isn’t she? Or maybe she’s like this with everyone? Bold of me to assume this beautiful and clearly beguiling woman has any interest in me just because she smiles at me.
And ridiculous of me to assume it matters. She might as well be a house cat with how compatible we are.
After the next couple of bites of my breakfast, I notice her hesitating. She’s biting her bottom lip and staring at her hands that are encased around the tiny ceramic diner mug. I’m about to ask what she’s thinking about when she reaches into her back pocket and produces a black card.
The script on the front is shiny and pink, naturally, as are the edges and logo on the back.
And I let out a laugh as I read the name of the club.
Pink.
Ironic.
