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“Scott Anderson.”
All eyes in the room turn to me, brows furrowed in confusion. My gut twists with shame and embarrassment.
Fuck.
Scott, a few tables away, stands and gives me an awkward smile. He straightens out his ill-fitting suit and excuses himself, scooting toward the stage.
Mortified, I quickly head back to my seat. And that’s when I hear the snickers.
Barbara is seated across from me. Her eyes glisten with amusement. I shouldn’t be surprised; she’s an old grouch, jealous of anyone younger and more successful than her. There’s a louder laugh and my eyes latch onto Constance, who does nothing to hide her smirk.
She shakes her head slowly at me, mocking pity.
Of course… I’m sure she’s the one who set this whole thing up. She started this rumor to make me look like an idiot. So on brand for her.
Feeling like I might vomit, I decide I can’t sit here a second longer and I push my chair back and slink toward the back of the hall. I’m praying everyone is focused on Scott and his winner’s speech. As I reach the darker recesses of the room, back where the servers are waiting, I take a deep breath and try to ignore the glances coming my way.
How am I going to face everyone on Monday? I’ve just made a complete fool of myself, pompously ready to accept a promotion that was clearly never coming my way.
Pursing my lips at the bitterness and regret sweeping through me, I slip out a side door and into the main part of the hotel. It’s brighter out here and I cross the lobby quickly, seeking out the shadows.
I head into the bar as quickly as my 3-inch heels will take me.
It’s a long, narrow room with small tables along the left wall and the bar itself on the right. It’s surprisingly empty for a Saturday night and I slide onto a barstool, smoothing my skirt over my thighs. I place a hand on my forehead.
“I can’t believe this,” I mutter to myself.
Humiliation fully grabs hold of me now that I’m alone. There’s a faint sound, the clearing of a throat, and I look up to find the bartender waiting.
“Can I get you something, miss?”
“Yes,” I practically gasp. “Red wine, please.”
“You look like you need something a little stronger,” says a voice to my left.
The bartender and I turn to look at a handsome older gentleman sitting two seats away. His eyes on me are direct, and an involuntary shiver goes up my spine.
“I think I know what I need. Thanks though.” It comes out bitter and short. The man lifts a brow, a corner of his mouth quirking in amusement.
“I think she may change her mind in a minute,” he says to the bartender. “Top me off, please, sir.”
The bartender nods, completely ignoring me now, and brings down a heavy green bottle. I recognize it immediately. My eyes turn back to the older man. Someone has expensive taste in alcohol…
“Tempted?” he asks, smiling and raising the now-full glass to his mouth. His upper lip is bowed, his lower surprisingly full for a man, and a shadow of a beard darkens his jaw.
Something stirs in me; something coming from the anger, humiliation, and adrenaline coursing through my veins.
“Depends,” I say boldly, in awe at how forward I’m being. “Are you going to share?”
“Mmm. I don’t usually, but…”
Responding to the man’s curt nod, the bartender moves back toward me and takes out a scotch glass. He pours out two fingers of Ardbeg 19 and places it in front of me.
“A little more,” I murmur, desperately wanting to blot out all memory of this night. The stranger hears me and chuckles. My cheeks flame, but I pick up the glass and take a deep swallow, trying not to gasp as it burns its way down my throat.
“Better?” the stranger asks as he stands and moves to the seat right next to me. He sits facing me, legs spread, one of his knees brushing my hip.
I nod briefly, wondering why he thinks it’s okay to move so close to me. I look at him critically, senses already dimmed by the top-shelf whisky.
