“So I can be publicly humiliated when he throws his drink in my face and tells me to fuck off? No thanks.”
“I’ll bet you a hundred bucks he doesn’t throw his drink in your face.”
“No.”
“Please?”
“No.”
“Pretty please?”
“No.”
“C’mon. If you won’t do it for yourself, do it for me.”
“That’s blackmail.”
She widens her eyes innocently. “Remind me again whose birthday it is?”
When I make a sour face but don’t reply, she goes in for the kill.
Leaning forward, she grins. “If you go talk to that guy, I promise I’ll stop calling Chet the twatwaffle. In fact, I won’t say a mean thing about him ever again.”
I pause to examine her expression. She appears earnest, but Chelsea’s a slippery one. She’ll conveniently forget this conversation by morning if it suits her.
“Okay, you’re on. But you have to record yourself saying that and send it to the group text.”
“Why?”
“Permanent evidence. If you renege on the deal, you have to buy me, Jen, and Angel new iPhones.”
Jen and Angel scream with laughter, but Chelsea’s eyes bulge in horror. “What?”
My smile is ruthless. “Deal or no deal, birthday girl?”
“That’s like three grand!”
Knowing she’ll agree eventually, and sooner if I act like I don’t care, I shrug and take a sip of my whiskey.
Disgruntled, she huffs. “Okay, fine. You’re on. But you have to stay over there and talk to him for at least ten minutes.”
I glance in his direction. He stares back at me, his gaze intense and unwavering. Thunderclouds churn over his head.
The thought of approaching all that negative energy and trying to start a conversation is daunting, but if it will get Chelsea to stop her smear campaign against my ex, it’s worth it. I’ve been enduring it for three months now, and I’m tired.
“I’ll try, but I can’t guarantee anything. He looks like he bites.”
Angel snickers. “If you’re lucky, he does.”
“Okay, you win. Here goes nothing.”
I sigh heavily, then chug the rest of my whiskey. Rising from the chair, I smooth my skirt with damp palms, then cross the room with my chin lifted and my shoulders squared, pretending a confidence I don’t feel.
Dark and Stormy watches me approach with the all the warmth of a contract killer.
By the time I stop at his tableside, I’ve decided to go with the truth rather than some cutesy opening line. In my present state of mind, I doubt I could come up with one, anyway.
“Hello. I don’t want to be here.”
He looks me up and down, his gaze traveling slowly over my figure. After a beat, he says in an unfriendly tone, “Yet here you are.”
We stare at each other in an oddly tense silence, as if both of us are waiting for the other to say something next and think whatever it is, it will be awful.
Finally, I say, “It’s my girlfriend’s birthday.”
A crease forms between his dark brows. “I don’t understand the connection between that and you standing there.”
“She promised me she’d stop trash-talking my ex if I came over and talked to you.”
He thinks about that for a moment. “That’s blackmail.”
“When it comes to Chelsea getting what she wants, all means of coercion are on the table.”
He glances past me. “Which one’s Chelsea?”
“The blonde.”
“She looks harmless.”
“All the most dangerous creatures do.”
He leans back against the booth and tilts his head, showcasing his beautiful jawline. His gaze grows assessing. “Were there any other terms of this blackmail of hers?”
“I have to stay for at least ten minutes.”
“And it’s important to you that she stop trash-talking your ex?”
“Yes.”
I can tell something about that pleases him, but can’t imagine why. He says, “All right. Sit down.”
He gestures to the empty space beside him in the booth. Somehow it doesn’t look like an invitation. Though his mouth is saying I should sit, his expression says he’d prefer I take a hike in a distant, snake-infested wilderness.
Apparently, he only likes to stare at women, not speak to them.
Too bad for him I’m not intimidated by cranky men with bad manners.
I sit beside him and smile politely. “I’d apologize for the inconvenience, but I think I’m going to enjoy annoying you for the next ten minutes.”
“Why would you want to annoy me?”
“You look like a lot of women’s biggest regret.”
We stare at each other in another tense silence. Only this time, I can smell his cologne. Spice, musk, something woodsy. Sexy and expensive. I can also see the color of his eyes, a fathomless dark blue that could be beautiful if it wasn’t for their hardness.
His tone low and his gaze piercing, he finally says, “And you look like a diamond some clown discarded so he could play with dirt. How long were you and this clown together?”
Startled, I blink. “Hang on. I’m trying to pick myself up off the floor.”
“What do you mean?”
“Is it really so obvious I’ve been dumped? How awful.”
“It’s your whole vibe. You’re like one of those shelter dogs.”
“Pardon?”
“You know. Barks real loud and acts tough, but only because it’s scared it’s about to get kicked again. And your man didn’t dump you. He freed you. He did you a favor. Take all that energy back that you’re wasting mourning the relationship and focus it on yourself. A queen doesn’t need the love of the village idiot.”
A breathless laugh of disbelief escapes me. I can’t decide if this guy is a mind reader, a genius, or a just a jerk.
I also can’t decide if he’s complimenting me or not. In the same breath he called me a queen, he compared me to an abused animal. Also, his entire demeanor suggests he thinks I’m a hopeless case who shouldn’t be allowed to vote.
“And here I thought Chelsea was the trash talker. We’re not even two minutes into the conversation, and you’ve already called my ex a clown and an idiot.”
“That’s being generous. Because any man who’d let a woman like you go is nothing but a little bitch.”
Captivated by this strange person and his even stranger manner of speech, I angle my body toward his and focus my attention on him more fully. “You don’t know me. I could be the bitch. Maybe I drove him away by being too needy.”
He shakes his head, a sharp motion that makes a lock of dark hair fall out of place. It settles onto his forehead, boyishly charming.
“There’s no such thing as too needy. The wrong person will never be able to meet your needs. Stop giving people grace who make you feel like you’re the problem. And stop holding on to who he pretended to be. He lied.”
Our gazes clash but hold. A frisson of electricity passes between us, supercharging the air.
Despite his prickly personality, the man is undeniably attractive.
After a moment, he looks away. He takes a swig of his drink and sets the glass on the table. A muscle flexes in his angular jaw. When he speaks again, his voice is gruff.
“I recently went through a breakup too.”
The pain fueling that statement is stunning. He put an entire saga of lost love into it. He sounds even more devastated than I am.
I find that—and him—fascinating.
“May I ask what happened?”
He closes his eyes and exhales. “I surrendered to the reality that I wasn’t her hero. I was the villain. So our story could never have a happy ending.”
My heart beats so fast. Too fast. I resist the urge to reach out and touch him.
Shockingly, this unhappy stranger with angry eyes and heartbreak running through his veins is someone who might be able to understand what I’ve been going through.
God knows my girlfriends haven’t shown me any sympathy. If I hear, “Just move on already!” one more time, I’ll scream.
I lower my voice. “And so you broke it off?”
“Yes.”
“But you didn’t want to.”
“No.”
“You were still in love with her when you ended it?”
He nods. Then he opens his eyes and looks at me with such naked longing, I’m momentarily speechless.
“What’s your name?”
It takes me a second to remember. “Shayna. But call me Shay.”
“I’m Coleton. Call me Cole.”
“Hello, Cole.”