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I spring out of the hot tub, surprising the other ladies, and get dressed as soon as I’m dry. With still-damp hair I do a casual walk-through of the gym to see if Wyatt’s still there. Not that I’m going to talk to him. It’s just that I want to see if I can learn anything else about him.
“No hard shoes on the basketball court, ma’am,” some teenage gym rat calls out to me.
“Sorry!” I yell over my shoulder.
Next, I take a peek into the weight room, full of the usual muscle heads and a few women in short shorts and sports bras trying to catch their attention. No Wyatt there, either.
Shit. I missed my opportunity to spy on him.
Kind of ironic when I’m pretty surehewas spying onme.
Defeated, I hoist my backpack onto my shoulders and get ready to leave. Just as I round the corner past the membership desk, who’s on his way out just ahead of me?
That’s right.
Wyatt.
Thank you, universe.
I hang back, pretending to read something on my phone until he exits, then I rush out after him to see which way he’s gone. Keeping a safe distance, I follow him, like the pathetic creature I am, willing to do almost anything to find the owner of Ryder Night and save my job at a place where my boss has no respect for me, anyway.
Good God, what is wrong with me?
It’s surprisingly easy to tail him. He’s making his way down the street, avoiding the crush of rush-hour people, waiting for the light to change before crossing.
It’s no surprise that as he goes about his business, he turns heads, attracting the admiration of not only several females but also males. He’s tall and buff with a crazy head of curls, and unspeakably handsome, so much so he looks like he could be an athlete or movie star.
And I turned him downwhy?
He slows in front of an old-school Irish bar. I tuck into a doorway to watch him pull the door open and disappear inside.
Okay. The guy likes a beer. Nothing surprising about that. But maybe, just maybe there’s more to the story.
Should I wait until he comes out? God knows how long that could take. Should I go in and hope I’m not noticed?
I wait, paralyzed with indecision.
What’s the worst that can happen?
If I run into him, I can say I stop by here all the time for an after-workout brew. He’ll say cool, and maybe even take a seat next to me for a chat. This time, I won’t be as big of a bitch. I’ll get him talking. He’ll slip and reveal more about the mysterious Ryder Night.
On the other hand, if he doesn’t notice me, so much the better. I can spy on him. See what he’s up to.
I’ve got nothing to lose, and everything to gain.
I’m going in.
Before I do, I pull on my sunglasses and turn up my collar. I slip inside and grab the seat closest to the door, keeping my head down. I can barely see, thanks to the dim light. I probably look like a total weirdo, wearing sunglasses in a dark bar. But I have to evaluate the situation before I risk revealing myself.
It all feels so James Bond.
“What can I get you, miss?” the bartender asks as I try to find him in the dark.
I squint. The first beer on tap I see is Guinness, so I point to it.
Bad move. I hate Guinness. Seconds later, I take a sip of what tastes like a warm beer milkshake, and slowly pivot my head toward the rest of the bar. After all, I’m not here for the beer.
It’s dark, like a lot of the old-school New York bars, with beer signs plastered all over the walls. It’s musty, smelling of stale beer and cigarettes from back when you could smoke in bars.
