I give her a smile that’s anything but amused. “Aren’t we Miss Rainbows and Sunshine?”
“Says the man trying to be a grumpy asshole to ensure I don’t talk to him or disturb his”—she makes a show of looking at my glass—“whiskey, is it?”
“Sunshine, rainbows, and a mind reader?” I raise my eyebrows and give a low whistle. “More than impressed.”
She mock curtsies and gives me a smile that lights up her face. Jesus, I was wrong. There’s a whole lot of sexy there too.
“Thank you. It’s one of my many party tricks.”
“One of your many?” I ask.
“Oh, he does know how to smile,” she murmurs just above the fray, her eyes meeting mine again. “It’s a good look on you. You should try it more often.”
I slide a bemused look her way. “Noted.”
“Oh, see, a glimpse of cute and then right back to grumpy.” She takes a seat and swivels on her stool to face me. A hint of her perfume hits me with the motion. The irony that it smells like bottled sunshine isn’t lost on me.
“Exactly.” I give a curt nod as if I’m annoyed by her and her interruption—which I was and still should be—and yet I engage when I could easily excuse myself from the bar. “See? It’s fruitless to waste your time trying to make me smile.”
“Noted.” She repeats my word back to me and smirks. “I have much better things to do than try and make you smile anyway.”
It’s my turn to swivel and face her, my knees bumping against hers. “Is that so?”
“It is.” She orders a glass of Cabernet sauvignon and looks back at me expectantly.
“What exactly do you have that’s better to do?” I point around the bar and as if on cue, thunder rumbles again to emphasize that we’re stuck here and she can’t leave.
She angles her head to the side and works her tongue in her cheeks. “Stuff.”
“Stuff? How descriptive.”
“How about, stuff I don’t want to do? Stuff I’m avoiding doing? Stuff I’m simply trying to make sense of? Is that descriptive enough for you, Mr. Grumpy?”
Something flickers in her eyes that tells me she’s glossing over whatever it is. “Sure. Fine. Whatever floats your boat.”
“Apparently, I’m going to need that boat to find my way out of here if the water keeps rising.”
“And she has jokes too.”
“Always. Why is it that you’re grumpy? Is this an everyday occurrence?” She narrows her eyes and studies me, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip as she does. “Hmm. I don’t peg you as the type though. Moody possibly. A brooder perhaps but simply for effect. But not perpetually grumpy.”
“Thanks for the psych eval.” I slide my empty glass toward the bartender, signaling for another. “I didn’t ask for one.”
“And yet that comment just confirmed my diagnosis.”
“Aren’t you the jack-of-all-trades,” I say.
Her smile just grows wider and damn it. It’s hard not to smile in return. Doesn’t she know my plan was to come here and brood? To self-medicate with this whiskey and tell myself how I have every right to be hurt and pissed and everything in between?
“So what is it? Girlfriend problems? Dog got run over? Car out of gas?”
My only response is a blank stare.
“Oh my God.” She brings a hand over her heart. “It’s your dog, isn’t it?” Tears well in her eyes—something I totally don’t expect—as her voice lowers. “I’m so sorry.” She reaches out and squeezes my knee.
Here’s my out.
I can let the lie stand as it is and use it to pull sympathy and get her to leave me alone. Nod my head and abandon my seat for one of the chairs over by the opposing window.
All alone.
But when I open my mouth to do just that, nothing comes out. I mean . . . there’s worse company to keep than a gorgeous woman who seems—so far—to have a great personality.
“Sorry to burst your bubble, but I don’t have a dog who died.”
Lightning strikes again and there are a few gasps around us. The woman beside me nods, almost as if she’s disappointed in me and I’m not sure why.
“I never claimed to have one either,” I continue. “You’re the one who jumped to conclusions.”
“You do have a dog, though, right?” she asks, as if it’s a very important question.
“And that matters why?”
“Because it says something about you if you have a dog.”
“Like what?” I ask, even though I’m of the same mind.
She shrugs. “That you think about more than just yourself. That you’re willing to share time and space. That you’re not afraid to get your hands dirty—I mean, picking up poop is a necessity.”
“What?” I all but spit my drink out.
“No one likes a person who isn’t willing to pick up their own dog’s poop.”
“You surprise me at every turn,” I mutter and stare into my glass before looking back to her.
“Good. Surprises are a good thing.” She flashes a megawatt smile. Who is this woman and why do I suddenly want her to not stop talking? “So? Dog? No dog? What?”
“No dog.” I hold up my hands. “But don’t judge. I love dogs. Big dogs. But that’s the downside to living in the city.” And why do I care that she’ll think differently of me because of my answer?
“The city?”
“Manhattan.”
She raises her eyebrows but doesn’t disclose whatever supposition her expression reflects. “And why is it the city’s fault?”
“Because dogs deserve a yard to run around in, and my place in a high-rise doesn’t exactly allow for that.”
“There are such things as dog walkers.”
“True, but taking a walk and having a yard to roam around in are two different things. So, is the dog inquisition over now?”
She purses her lips and gives me that look again but doesn’t elaborate on whatever she’s thinking. “Yes. Sure. But still . . . oh, I get it. I’m interrupting a pity party,” she murmurs with a soft nod, and then she redirects this random conversation once again. “Couldn’t pick a more apropos night to have one in my opinion. I mean, they don’t accomplish anything, but they’re definitely needed every now and again.”
“Yes. Sure. Something like that.”
I know the next thing she’s going to ask is, what’s wrong? She’s a woman. A woman with a vivid imagination no less.
But rather than doing the expected, she shoves out of her seat and looks around before heading to the other side of the bar. I watch her grab something before coming back and setting a wooden bowl—that looks like it’s from the 1970s—between us on the bar.
Engagement ring alert.
How did I not notice the rather large diamond ring on her left hand? And why does seeing it surprise me?
“Is there a problem?” she asks.
I shake my head and realize I’m staring at the bowl she just brought over while wondering what her fiancé or husband—the prick—is like. “What’s this?”