by Katie McCoy
“He does everything properly,” Alex reminded us.
I sincerely hoped he didn’t do everything properly. Not that I was going to find out.
“It wasn’t a date,” I told them. I knew that for sure. “And he said the kiss shouldn’t have happened.”
The girls winced, and I was grateful for their reaction. Because, yeah, that was kind of a dick move on his part—kiss me and then say it was a mistake. Not that I cared. I didn’t. I was just looking to have a good time, and if Liam wasn’t interested, then that was his loss.
“Well, Liam is an interesting guy,” Hayley said, clearly choosing her words.
“It’s OK,” I told them. “It wasn’t a big deal and now—whatever it was—is over.”
But the looks I got from the girls indicated that they didn’t believe me.
“I promise,” I told them, a little touched that they were looking out for me. This whole normal friend thing was working out really well so far. “We’re good.”
“Sure.” Kelsey snuck a look over her shoulder.
I followed her gaze and found that Liam was staring at us. His eyes met mine, and I was pretty sure a part of me—a below-the-waist part of me—nearly burst into flames. I swallowed. Hard.
“Yeah, that doesn’t look like it’s over,” Alex observed lightly. “The two of you practically lit the building on fire with that look.”
I gulped one of the mojitos down, ignoring my rule about not drinking on the job.
“It’s fine,” I gasped.
Hayley reached over and pounded me on the back.
“I’m sure you will be,” she said.
Even though it was a pretty slow night, we had a busy spell an hour before closing, when a bunch of banking bros flooded the bar, ordering martinis and old fashioneds like wannabe Don Drapers.
Some of them were pretty cute, though, and I couldn’t help flirting, especially when I noticed that Liam was still watching me from the corner booth. He had been there all night with some files and papers, nursing that first whiskey I had given him, watching but not approaching. I really couldn’t figure him out. Sure, I guess he had a type, but there was obviously chemistry between us. Was his list of requirements so stringent that he couldn’t even have a good time with the wrong kind of girl?
I told myself to stop thinking about it. One of the many perks about being a bartender was there was no shortage of men wanting my attention. And sure, most of them wanted it so they could order a drink, but a few of them had asked for my number as well. So far, I’d declined to give it out, but maybe I should rethink that.
“A dirty martini,” a cute blonde guy said as he approached the bar.
“How dirty do you like it?” I asked.
He grinned. “How dirty can you make it?” he wanted to know.
“Very, very dirty,” I assured him.
“Excellent.” He leaned an elbow on the bar. “I like a girl who knows her way around olive juice.”
I laughed.
Even though I did everything I could not to look, I could still feel the way Liam’s attention turned to me when I laughed. I was hyperaware of him—and he seemed to be equally aware of me—but I didn’t want to be. He was a distraction.
So I turned back to my customer, giving him my full attention and a broad smile. If Liam wasn’t interested in me, maybe I’d find someone else who was.
8
Liam
I was distracted. I hated being distracted. Especially when I was at work. Especially when the distraction was a certain willowy brunette who had spent her entire shift the night before chatting up strange men.
I had no reason to be jealous. Which is why I was especially annoyed to have those feelings of jealousy towards the guys who had been talking—and flirting—with Juliet at Rascals. They had every right to talk to her—in fact, it was good for my bottom line if she was friendly and talkative and if customers liked her. Chase flirted shamelessly behind the bar and I knew it was good for business. It never bothered me until I saw Juliet doing it.
I was a dick. I never should have kissed her after that cooking class. I never should have gone to the cooking class in the first place. Both things had been completely out of character, and I still, for the life of me, couldn’t explain why I had done them.
I was attracted to Juliet, that much was clear, but I didn’t know why. She wasn’t my type at all. Wasn’t the kind of woman I saw myself settling down with. I needed to remind myself of the kind of woman I was looking for. Which is why I had turned my focus towards my dating life with a new intensity. I had several dates set up for this week, all of them with the right kind of girl—smart, focused, stable.
No doubt my latest dry spell had made me lose sight of my goals. I was allowing my desire to take over, when I knew from experience that decisions made on impulse or based on emotion never ended well. Juliet was gorgeous, and I wanted her, but that wasn’t good enough. I wasn’t looking for a one-night (or even a two- or three-night) stand. I was looking for a partner.
I headed to a meeting with my boss, Carl, in his office. He was one of the older partners, and he had taken me under his wing when I first started at the consulting company. I saw him as something of a mentor, and it was very important to me that I did a good job, not just because I wanted to succeed, but because I wanted to prove to Carl that he had made the right decision to hire me and then continue to promote me within the company
“Liam,” he greeted me with a handshake and a smile. “Good to see you,” he said, gesturing for me to sit. “What’s new?”
“Well, the projects are all coming along nicely.” I sat, pulling out my portfolio.
He chuckled. “I have no doubt,” he said. “But I was also asking about you—what’s new in your life?”
I was thrown. We occasionally talked about our personal lives, but I liked to keep my work life and my private life pretty separate. It seemed more professional that way. I hadn’t even mentioned my involvement in Rascals because I didn’t want my boss, or anyone else at the company, to think less of me because I co-owned a bar with my friends. The firm was still pretty conservative, so I knew there was always the chance they’d associate a bar—even one I owned—with me being a beer-swilling frat boy who was only interested in a good time.
“Things are good,” I said slowly, not exactly sure what to tell my boss. “I can’t complain. The weather’s been great,” I added, searching for something to say.
“Yes, it has,” he agreed. “My wife and I have been spending time on the boat. Do you sail at all?”
“Only as a guest,” I replied.
“Well, we’ll have to have you out some time.”
“I’d like that,” I agreed.
“We are all very impressed with the work you’ve been doing here,” he said, apparently done with the personal small talk. “You’ve really taken initiative, and your attention to detail shows with every project you tackle.”
“Thank you very much,” I responded, feeling a swell of pride that all my hard work was being noticed.
There was a gentle knock on the door, and we both glanced up to see a beautiful, gray-haired woman standing in the doorway. Her hair was styled perfectly, not a strand out of place, and the same could be said for her outfit, a black suit that fit her impeccably.
“Ah, speak of the devil.” Carl stood and gave her an affectionate kiss on the cheek. “Liam, this is my wife, Patricia.”
She held out her elegantly manicured hand, and I shook it.
“I’ve heard a lot about you,” she said. “Carl speaks very highly of you.”
“Thank you.” I felt that swell of pride again. “Carl speaks about you often as well. You’re a surgeon at Chicago General, isn’t that right?”
“Yes. I’m taking a rare day for admin work, which is why I’m here.” She turned to Carl. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but we need to coordinate our schedules for the next month. My assistant needs to know what evenings I’m free.”
�
�Of course, dear.” Carl nodded before turning back to me. “Do you mind if we reschedule this meeting?” he asked.
“Not at all,” I told him, getting up.
I left his office, feeling a twinge of envy. The relationship that Carl had with his wife—not just the clear affection they had for each other, but also the way they were both so organized and pragmatic about their lives and schedules—that was exactly what I wanted. There were plenty of women like that in Chicago.
And none of them worked at Rascals.
I had lined up several dates that week, but they were getting off to a rocky start. I had met Lauren through an old frat brother of mine—she was a lawyer, came from a good family, and was very ambitious. Unfortunately, that ambition was what had her calling me at 6:30 on the night we were supposed to go out. She had to cancel.
I understood the importance of working late, so I wasn’t annoyed, but now I had two tickets to the Chicago City Ballet and no one to go with. Then I remembered what I had overheard Hayley saying to her brother after they had hired Juliet.
“She’s a former dancer,” she had said. “A real, bona fide ballerina.”
It had intrigued me, because what I knew about dancers were that they were extremely disciplined, very focused people. They had to be.
Juliet didn’t seem that way at all. Not that she hadn’t been doing a great job at Rascals—she was a natural waitress and bartender. Which seemed to be on the opposite end of the spectrum from ballerina.
Still, maybe she would want to go to the ballet. The last thing I wanted to do was let these tickets go to waste.
Before I could second-guess myself, I was calling Emerson and asking for her number. When he asked the reason, I made up some excuse about employee paperwork—an excuse I’m pretty sure he saw right through, but he gave me the number anyways.
I called.
“Hello?”
Her voice made my body hum. This was a terrible idea. I knew I should hang up the phone. But I didn’t. “Hi, Juliet, this is Liam. From Rascals,” I added the last part unnecessarily. Or so I hoped. After the way she had been flirting the other night, I might be nothing more than a memory to her.
Though, I could still remember the eager way she had kissed me back. You didn’t forget a kiss like that. Even if you wanted to.
“Hi, Liam,” she said, the sound musical. “How can I help you?”
“Are you free tonight? Because I have an extra ticket to the ballet, and I remember hearing that you were a fan of ballet, so I thought I’d see if you were free. Are you interested?” I asked, the words stumbling out of my mouth. I felt like a teen boy, asking a girl out for the first time. Not that I was asking her out. No. I just didn’t want the tickets to go to waste.
She paused for a long moment.
“That sounds nice,” she finally said. “I can be ready in twenty minutes.”
I remembered her address from the night I walked her home—the night of the second kiss—and she buzzed me up when I arrived. The apartment building was rundown and smelled of food from the restaurant kitchen below. The elevator didn’t even work. It reminded me of the kind of places that my mother and I had lived in when I was a kid, and those were not memories I was excited to revisit.
But when Juliet opened the door, every single bad thought left my brain.
She was stunning.
Wearing a floor-length black dress that hugged every one of her petite curves, she looked glamorous and elegant and absolutely gorgeous. “Wow,” I managed.
I didn’t know much about women’s fashion or beauty routines, but I knew that it wasn’t easy to get ready for something at a moment’s notice, so if she was able to do this in a half hour, I couldn’t even begin to imagine what giving her a proper heads-up would have resulted in.
Not that I was complaining. Because I was definitely not complaining.
“Wow,” I said again. “You look incredible.”
She put a hand to her hair self-consciously. She had put it up in some fancy twist, a lot like what she had been wearing the night I met her.
“Thanks,” Juliet said, blushing a little.
I liked that I could make her blush. It was a little caveman of me, but I couldn’t help it.
“Shall we?” I offered my arm.
It was an opening night event at the ballet, and everyone was dressed appropriately. Still, I noticed that lots of people were looking at Juliet. At first, I thought they were just admiring how beautiful she was—which I was certain many of them were—but then I started noticing that people were looking at her—staring, in fact—and turning to each other and whispering.
If Juliet noticed this behavior, she said nothing, and I decided to take her lead and ignore it. Not that I was looking for an excuse to look at anyone but her. She carried herself with such grace and elegance that for a moment I forgot all the reasons I couldn’t pursue her.
All the reasons I shouldn’t pursue her.
As we sat down in our seats, I realized that I wasn’t exactly sure if we were on a date. Or if she considered it a date. Because if it was a date, it wouldn’t be weird or awkward of me to reach out and take her hand as the show started. But if it wasn’t a date, then it would definitely be over the line.
The lights went down, and Juliet leaned forward in her seat, clearly eager to watch the show. I watched her, still debating whether or not I should try to hold her hand. But as I warred with myself, I saw her expression change.
The light was dim, so at first I wasn’t sure if I was imagining it, but after a while it became clear that Juliet’s expression of eagerness, of enjoyment, had morphed into something else.
But before I could identify it, she burst into loud, messy tears and bolted out of the theater.
9
Juliet
I was being foolish. I was being a stupid, silly, foolish girl. But I couldn’t help it, couldn’t control the tears that streamed down my face as I ran for the lobby.
I thought I’d be OK going to a performance—that I’d be able to come to the theater, be able to sit in the audience, and watch the steps I’d practiced over and over and over again performed by someone else, and still be fine.
Well, I had been wrong. I wasn’t fine. This wasn’t fine at all.
All at once, the memories of my accident came rushing back to me. It had been a rehearsal, just like all the others. I had been going through the second act with my partner. Everything had been going perfectly, until I fell: tripped over a piece of set that wasn’t supposed to be there. I fell, hitting my knee, my leg still caught in the set piece, wrenching my whole leg out of place.
My scream had echoed through the theater.
I didn’t remember much else, just the red blur of pain as I was taken to the hospital. Everything after that point was still unclear to me. I remember my parents coming to visit me, my room full of flowers and cards, but very few visitors. It wasn’t until after I had left the hospital and started physical therapy that I found out that most of my dancer friends were afraid to visit me in the hospital. As if my injury might jinx them.
As if they might be next.
The last year had been a lonely one, and I was still in mourning. For a lot of things. For my career, for my friendships, for my dreams. I had come to the ballet tonight as if I could will myself to stop grieving and maybe take some joy from dance again, even if I was just sitting in the audience.
But I couldn’t. I wasn’t ready yet.
Instead, I was in the lobby of the theater in my best black dress, crying my eyes out and probably making a terrible mess of my makeup. I was a whirlwind of emotion, and I didn’t know what to do about any of it.
“Are you OK?”
I looked up and found that Liam had followed me out of the theater. He appeared concerned. Not that I could blame him—he probably thought I was totally nuts. But instead of standing there awkwardly while I tried to control my sobs, Liam pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket—a real linen one—and handed it to
me.
I mopped up my tears, trying my best to clean up the mascara that had smeared under my eyes, and offered the damp, stained handkerchief back.
“Keep it,” Liam told me.
“Thank you,” I hiccupped, the tears finally receding.
I wiped my face again, my cheeks burning. This was so completely, utterly embarrassing. I hadn’t been sure if Liam had been considering this evening out as a date when he first called me, but I was pretty sure that he didn’t consider it a date now. And why would he? Certainly, there were plenty of women in Chicago who would be able to go to a ballet performance with an incredibly handsome guy without bursting into tears.
Finally, I took a breath and prepared for the awkward goodbyes. But instead, Liam held his hand out to help me up.
“Want to get out of here?” Liam asked. “There’s a pretty good diner a few blocks away.”
I was so surprised, I could only nod yes and follow as he led me away from the theater. The diner was the last place I would have expected Liam to take me. It was your typical greasy spoon, with whiteboard specials and paper napkins, but the people there seemed to know Liam. The hostess greeted him by name and all the waitresses waved at him when we entered. I was surprised. After all, he was decked out in another one of his very nice suits—black, with a white shirt and black bowtie—for this evening, yet he didn’t seem out of place among the linoleum tables and squeaky plastic booths.
“You want the regular, honey?” our waitress asked when she came over.
“Sure,” Liam told her. “But I think my date might want to look at the menu.”
I raised an eyebrow. Date?
The waitress handed me a menu. “Careful with this one, sweetie,” she told me with a wink. “He’s a real heartbreaker.”
“That’s what I’ve heard,” I responded with a smile.
Liam looked embarrassed. “The stories of my conquests have been greatly exaggerated, Polly,” he told our waitress.
