At least, that is the bullshit line she feeds me, along with everyone else who bothers to ask.
The guy showed, so at least he didn’t stand me up. But halfway through dinner, when I’d made it clear I wasn’t looking to sleep with him tonight and was looking for an actual relationship, he excused himself to use the restroom and never returned. He left me with the check to pay, which included his entrée, the most expensive thing on the menu. Typical asshole.
“Darlin’, I think it’s ready to drink,” the man next to me says, but it’s barely audible because I’m so stuck in my thoughts.
I turn my head only slightly and give the man the side eye. He’s not looking at me, beer to his lips, staring at the same line of bottles I was just a moment ago.
“Thanks, buddy,” I say, but my voice isn’t sweet. “Why don’t you do you, and I’ll do me. ’Kay?”
I go back to the bottles, ignoring the nagging feeling in my gut, the anger building in my veins toward all mankind that I want to unleash on something or someone, but am somehow holding inside.
A low, sultry laugh hits my ears. “It’s more fun to do it with someone else, but if you wanna do you, I’ll watch. Hell, you can watch me do me too if that’s your thing. Whatever it takes to get that look off your face.”
I swivel my entire body around, hand now gripping the thin stem of my drink, and glare at the man. With my chin raised, I announce to the side of his head, “It’s not my thing. And while I’m at it, I’m sitting here, by myself, savoring my drink, trying to enjoy some peace and quiet, and you have to go open your big fat trap, invading my space and my brain with your bullshit. I don’t know if your lines work on some women, but I’m telling you right now, I’m not some women, and it’s not cute or called for. So, the little chat was nice, but again, buddy, you do you and I’ll do me. That includes hands and mouths, and I prefer your mouth shut…tight.” I don’t move as I stand my ground, staring at his profile, shooting proverbial daggers with my eyes.
He turns his upper half toward me, finally showing me his face, and holy fucking shit, it’s one hell of a face at that. Thick, bushy beard, impeccable skin which is somehow still rugged, full, luscious lips, and deep green eyes. I instantly hate him more than I did before I saw a face that has probably made more pairs of panties hit the floor than I could ever imagine.
I swallow as he raises an eyebrow, but his eyes stay soft and not threatening. “You done?” he asks.
“Are you?” I throw back, never breaking eye contact.
“Total dick move on my part. I should never talk to a woman like that. I’m sorry, but I had a shit day, and you’re sitting here, looking sad and beautiful, and I couldn’t help my stupid-ass mouth from inserting my boot right on inside. Forgive me for being the world’s biggest asshole.”
“First of all, having a shit day is no excuse for being a shit person. I think my shit day beats your shit day, and I was sitting here minding my business, enjoying my drink.”
His smile goes lopsided and somehow cute. “You mean stirring it?”
I wrinkle my nose, lifting my chin a little higher. “I was thinking. It’s something people typically do before they open their mouths.”
The lines near his eyes deepen, and his smile widens and straightens. “You’re salty along with sexy.”
“Salty as fuck, man. Again, shit day, but that’s my life.”
His long, thick fingers wrap around his beer, and I dip my eyes, unable to stop myself. “Mine too, darlin’. Let me buy you another whatever the fuck that’s called to make it up to you.”
I shake my head. “If I have another, I’ll be drunk.”
“And maybe not so deep in thought.”
“But I’ll be drunk, and I don’t drink and drive.”
“Then I’ll buy you a Coke or French fries.”
I stare at him, thinking about his offer. I am still full from the meal I ate alone after the fucker ditched me, but… “Buy me dessert and I’ll forget you were a creep.”
He rubs the back of his neck with one hand, still holding the bottle with the other. “I’m not usually such a douchebag. I swear. It’s just…” His gaze drops down, making a slow descent from my face to my toes. “You look like you’re fishing.”
“I’d never fish in these shoes.” I peer down at my feet, loving the peep-toed stilettos I splurged on because every girl deserves something to make herself feel pretty. “You clearly know nothing about footwear.”
He shakes his head, laughing as my eyes land on his face again. “I didn’t mean fish fish, woman. I’m talking dick, and if you were casting a line, I was biting.”
I narrow my eyes, grinding my teeth. “You’ll never be lucky enough to bite my line, babe.”
He doesn’t seem fazed. “What’s your name, beautiful?”
“What’s yours?” I ask before answering.
“Handsome.”
I roll my eyes. “What’s your real name?”
“Dylan.”
“Rosie.”
He tilts his head, and his eyes study me, making me feel naked. “Wait a second…Rosie?”
“That’s what I said, Dylan.”
He leans back a little, arm resting on the bar, studying me for longer than what’s completely comfortable. “Rosie Gallo?”
I nod and stop myself from releasing the sigh that’s creeping up my throat. Great. He knows me. Of course he would in this small town. “The one and only.”
“Fuck,” he grunts as he straightens his back again. “Of all the hot bitches in the world.”
I want to be mad because he called me a bitch, but the hot in front of that word nullifies the sting just enough for me to let it slide…for now. “And that means?” I cross my arms, unable to stop my lip from curling. “How do you know who I am?”
“Holy fuck. You grew up.”
“That tends to happen with time. Who the hell are you, and how do you know me?” I repeat, seriously curious, because I have no memories or flashes of the wall of man in front of me.
“I’m Dylan Walsh, and you used to know me when you were a little girl, which you clearly aren’t anymore. I also know your shoes are expensive as fuck and meant to get attention, and they got it…at least my attention. That’s on top of your tits, ass, and killer hair. Everything about you screams high-class and probably a total pain-in-the-ass, high-maintenance chick. Also, I know your older sister, I remember your twin sister, I think your mother’s a saint, and your father can be the biggest fucking asshole on the planet.”
I blink, staring at him, but I recover quickly. “Dylan. Dylan. Dylan,” I whisper, trying to jog some memory of him, twisting the martini stem in my fingers. “I’m drawing a blank although I clearly made an impression on you, but I have no memories of a Dylan. I do know the Walshes, and they’re literally the biggest assholes on the planet, not my father. You got your shit backward and twisted, but I shouldn’t be surprised if you are, in fact, a Walsh.”
He lifts his leg, placing a single scuffed-up biker boot on the metal running along the bottom of the bar. “Your family always hated mine, and vice versa,” he says before going back to nursing his beer.