He was looking at her hair. “I beg your pardon, but I thought I saw glitter in your hair.”
She gripped the tray. “As a matter of fact,” she said, pasting the bright smile to her face, regretting ever having put it in her hair, “it’s stardust.”
“Stardust?”
“Yes, stardust. You can get it at this little shop . . .” Wait. Scratch that. No need to mention the witchcraft stuff again. “It’s to bring me good luck.” And what a lucky batch she’d managed to get her hands on!
“Oh.” He stood there, and Rachel could almost see the wheels turning, could almost hear him think, How in the bloody hell do I get my arse out of this one? “It’s really quite . . . fetching,” he said.
“I know,” Rachel responded, smarty-like, and turned around, marched away, hoping to high heaven Flynn at least had the good sense to look away from her butt.
She delivered the scotch and water, heard some elderly woman tell the man she was so sorry about his loss, and thought, judging by his expression, that the loss must have been a stock or something, and kept walking, right through the swinging door and into the kitchen where she put her tray down. “Anyone have a smoke?” she asked.
One of the girls nodded and fished it out of her skirt pocket. “Don’t let Queen Mary catch you, or she’ll can you on the spot,” she warned as she handed Rachel a lighter.
Rachel nodded, walked to the back of the kitchen, swiping up a few grilled shrimp as she went, and snuck out to the little area between the garage and the work quarters. She popped a shrimp into her mouth, leaned down to where Fraidy Cat was sitting at the end of her chain, and placed two shrimp in front of her. “Hurry up,” she said to the cat, and lit the cigarette, felt the nicotine rush through her limbs as she watched the cat sniff carefully around the shrimp.
She heard the crunch of feet on the drive before he spoke, and she closed her eyes, imagined what he’d say. I’m so sorry. I’m an idiot. I adore you, and it frightened me . . . Or the more likely, Uh, pardon, but could you move your car? You’re blocking me, and Blondie and I are going to go have a quick shag.
The feet stopped behind her. She took another drag off the cigarette, waited for him to say something that would crush her. But instead, he said, “Hey, is everything okay?”
All right, that was a decent beginning, better than she would have guessed, maybe a seven on a scale of ten. There was only one little problem. It wasn’t Flynn.
It was Mike, the bartender.
Chapter Seventeen
Mike was smiling, so she figured she hadn’t been fired for sneaking out for a smoke. “I’m fine,” she said, holding up the cigarette. “Just having a smoke.”
“Mind if I join you?” he asked, taking a pack out of his breast pocket and lighting one up, and therein answering the burning question of what, exactly, he was doing out here. And in fact, up on a small patio, there were several party guests huddled together, also having a smoke.
Mike laughed. “Help down by the garbage cans. Guests this way.” He looked around; saw the cat munching on shrimp. “What’s that around its neck?”
“A chain.”
“A chain? What’s that, their watch cat?” He laughed loudly at his own joke, but turned away from the poor cat and dragged on his smoke.
Rachel didn’t think it was particularly funny. She thought it was downright cruel.
“Anyone see you come out?” he asked, looking toward the service door.
“I don’t think so.”
“So, Rachel,” he said, exhaling smoke. “Rachel, Rachel.”
“That’s me,” she said in a singsong voice.
“Do you live in Providence?”
She nodded.
“Get out much?”
What did that mean? Was she acting weird, or something?
“Like out to clubs,” he helpfully clarified.
“Oh. Not a lot. I’m in school.”
“Aren’t we all.”
“You, too? Brown?”
He snorted. “Nah. Rhode Island Community College. Business Administration. You go to Brown? What are you studying?”
Okey-doke, here they went. Rachel inhaled and felt nauseated. That was the thing about smoking. The idea was always better than the real thing. “History,” she said.
“Wow. Gonna be a professor, I guess.”
“I guess,” she said. At the rate things were going, she’d probably end up typing routine autopsy reports or something likewise fabulously successful and awe-inspiring.
“Let me ask you something,” Mike said, glancing at his wristwatch. “You ever take a break from those books long enough to go out for a drink?”
Get. Out! Was he asking her for a date? With a grin, she turned toward him “Sometimes. Why?”