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I huff at myself. The problem is, I haven’t met anyone as interesting as Lily since the divorce.I should have gotten her number. It’s ridiculous that I didn’t. Since when does a woman not give me her number?
Thinking hard, I remember she seemed chummy with the bartender. She knew his specialty. That might be enough to go on. I dial up the bar. “Yes, hello. I was there Friday night. I believe the bartender’s name was Mike—
“That’s me.”
“Okay, great. I came in and asked for a shitty beer, and—
He laughs. “Oh, I remember you. Did you leave something behind?”
“No, nothing like that. The woman I left with—would you happen to know her last name?”
“No. I’ve never seen her in here before.”
“Damn. Alright. Thanks for your time.”
“No worries. If I see her around, do you want me to let her know you called, asking about her? Your number is on my called ID, so I could share it, if you like.”
I frown, thinking. “Yeah. If it’s not too much trouble—
“I’ll give her your number.”
“Thanks again.” I hang up and make a note to hire him out from that dive bar. A thoughtful bartender would make an excellent addition to the staff at the resort once we open. Still, hitting a brick wall on Lily annoys me to no end.
How did I let her leave without insisting on getting her digits?
Looking the bar up on social media, I search through the tags from Friday night. No luck. She’s practically a ghost, being this untraceable. Flicking through the bar’s posts, no one got her in a pic. Not even in the background. Makes sense, though. She wasn’t exactly dressed for going out. No reason for them to include her in the pictures.
It’s part of what I like about her.
Lily wasn’t there to show off or to meet people. She was there to drink while comfortable. I’d never seen a woman in such baggy clothes at a bar, and it made her stick out. They were odd, too. Not pajamas—too sturdy for that. But the pants had a bright pattern of vegetables on them and her black tech shirt had a zippered neckline. Even her shoes were for comfort—cushy black sneakers. There was nothing about her look that said, “Please flirt with me.”
Which is why I was interested. That and her messy brunette bun. It had been so much fun messing it up more. I hadn’t talked to a woman like her in ages. There was no guile. No games. She wanted what she wanted, and she went for it.
But maybe that’s the nature of a real one-night stand. You don’t have to pretend or be polite. Maybe she isn’t like that with guys she dates. She might have needed a one-night stand for the same reason I did—to unwind. Although she didn’t seem wound tight, either. It was more like something had upset her, and I was her distraction.
I’d be happy to distract her again.
Searching online for every connection between us, though, I strike out. No way to distract her again if I can’t contact her. I grumble to myself and text my lunch order to my elderly assistant, Linda, before getting on with the charity proposals. No sense in delaying the inevitable. Boredom Alley, here I come.
When Linda knocks on my door, I’m surprised. “Come in.”
She toddles in, her white frizzy hair curled tight to her head. Her cream suit is sharp, but I know she’d rather be in yoga pants and sitting on the beach. Just two years until her retirement, and I fear that moment might come sooner rather than later if she gets the notion. Her thick, Long Island accent asks, “It’s Monday, Cormac. Mondays, you order the Reuben with a side of potato salad. Now you want a chef salad with raspberry vinaigrette? Are you feeling okay?”
I shrug. “Change is good for the soul, right?”
She fusses, pursing her lips at me. “What happened?”
“Nothing,” I say with a laugh. “You don’t have to worry about me all the time.”
“Of course I do. That’s exactly my job until I retire in twenty-three months and eight days.”
“You’re counting it down to the day now?”
She smiles. “Oh yes. If you were moving to a tropical beach, wouldn’t you?”
“You have a point.” Still, I didn’t like that she was counting the days. “Is that it?”
“Don’t give me that lip, young man. Something happened this weekend—are the kids okay? Franny didn’t get hurt at gymnastics—
