by Aven Ellis
Evacuate mission, my brain screams. Abort, abort, abort!
“Just for the inconvenience,” I say quickly. “Nothing more, of course.” I glance around to see if anyone nearby looks like they are with him.
“Are you wondering if I’m here alone?”
Damn it. Think of something, Kylie. Fast. This is humiliating.
“No, of course not,” I blurt out.
“Does it matter if I am here alone?”
Yes. No. Does it? Oh God.
“I’m not trying to pick you up,” I say. “I would never pick up a guy in a bar.”
Right? I mean, I just took a quiz on this. He’s hot. Yes, but he’s in a bar. Alone. Which only means one thing—
“So,” he says, slowly rubbing his fingertips over his jaw line back and forth, “if I’m alone, having a beer here on a Saturday night, I must be looking to pick up a woman?”
I stare at him, stunned. How is this man reading my mind?
“To answer your question, I’m here because it’s a nice place to get a drink and be undisturbed. Until women in pink-cotton-candy-colored gowns fall into my lap and drench me in some kind of fruity white wine.”
Then he smiles at me. A beautiful smile that makes his eyes crinkle up in the corners of his face.
I find myself laughing and he does too.
“Would you please let me buy you a drink?” I ask again. “I don’t feel right not doing something for you. I mean, you’ve been incredibly understanding about your shirt.”
Even though I know nothing is going to happen—obviously, we are in a bar, and I don’t pick up people in bars—and apparently neither does he—I find myself wishing he would agree to this. Which is stupid. It’s not like he wants to sit down and talk to me or anything. He pretty much just said that—
“Okay,” he says, nodding. “Would you like to have a seat? We can remain nameless to simplify things. You know, since neither one of us is into bar pickups.”
All right, names might not be exchanged but conversation is in play.
I sink down into the rich leather sofa, and he sits down next to me. A cocktail waitress appears, hands him some napkins to blot his shirt, and we order drinks. He requests some kind of beer I have never heard of. I try again for another glass of white wine. After the waitress leaves, we are left with each other.
“I’m really sorry about the shirt,” I say again.
“Honestly it’s no big deal,” he says easily. Then he raises a brow. “Are you running away from a bridal party?”
I hesitate. Okay, we have agreed to remain nameless. I’ll never see him again.
And this is against every rule I have, but as I look into his handsome face, I want to be completely honest. I don’t know why. I can’t explain it. Maybe because I’ve already sat in his lap? I don’t know. But something inside me wants to share with him. So I decide to tell him the truth.
“Very astute observation,” I say, grabbing the throw pillow that is behind me and setting it in my lap. I run my fingers over the edges absently. “My brother just got married.”
“So why did you ditch out?” Ginger Boy asks.
I sigh and look down. “I’m not really good in big social situations like that. I . . . I don’t exactly blend.”
The waitress comes back with our drinks. We take them and I try a sip of my wine.
“Why on earth would you even want to?” he asks, his eyes focused in on me.
I laugh. “Oh, it makes a life a lot easier when you aren’t different.”
“And how are you different?” he asks, taking a sip of his beer.
“I’m not like anyone else in my family,” I say quietly. “I don’t like big social settings and partying. I like small groups of people. I enjoy staying home and watching a movie with takeout. I like to sew and design. I work in visual display at a clothing boutique, which horrifies my parents—”
“Why do you care what they think as long as you’re successful and happy?” Ginger Boy interrupts.
I stare at him, amazed. “Wow, you’re good. I feel like I’m in a therapy session.”
Suddenly I see something change in his green eyes. They light up. Like he is pleased with what I said. A tingling feeling sweeps over me in response.
“Really?” he asks, rubbing his fingertips along his jaw again. “You think I sound like a therapist?”
I can’t help it. I laugh. “Yes. You really listen. A lot of people act like they do, but they don’t. And you seem to know what questions to ask to make me think.”
He grins, but this time, a broad grin, one that completely spreads across his face. My breath catches in my throat in response.
“Well, if that’s the case, let me move over to this chair and you can recline on the couch for the rest of the session,” he quips.
We both laugh.
“So what’s your story? You’re not from Texas,” I say. “That is an East Coast accent.”
“Boston,” he confirms. “I moved here for my work.”
I take another sip of wine. “What do you do?”
I notice Ginger Boy hesitates for a moment. He rakes a hand through his hair and clears his throat before answering.
“My work is on hiatus right now,” he says vaguely. “It will start again in the fall.”
Hmmmm. He didn’t exactly answer the question, but I guess he doesn’t have to since I’ll never see him again.
And why does that thought make me feel a bit anxious?
“So you sew?” he says, coming back to me again.
I nod. “I do.”
“So you could fix your dress.”
I laugh. “Um, yes. But I won’t. I do not see the need to be wearing a mermaid pink gown that gives me Pippa ass.”
He roars with laughter. “Pippa what?”
Good lord, I blurted out Pippa ass? What is wrong with me?
“Um, I was told that. Pippa Middleton ass. You know, because of the dress she wore for Kate and William’s wedding?”
Why am I talking about the royals? Why?
“Um, so I was told. By my new sister-in-law. And a groomsman,” I finish.
Much to my surprise, he doesn’t excuse himself and walk away. Rather, he appears amused by my story.
He laughs again. “Nice.”
I laugh at myself. “I can’t believe I just told you that. And I promise I’m not drunk.”
“I don’t know. You threw a drink on me and fell into my lap, now you’re talking about your ass—”
“Pippa’s,” I interject.
“I stand corrected. Pippa’s ass,” he says, grinning.
“So why are you here?” I ask, desperate to get off the topic of Pippa Middleton’s famous derriere.
“I like people watching,” he says. “I like to observe, to try and figure out their stories.”
“Really?” I ask, intrigued.
“Yeah,” he says simply. He leans in closer to me, and I get an intoxicating whiff of him, of a warm, spicy-vanilla cologne. He bends toward my ear so he can talk directly to me, and much to my shock, a shiver rips down my spine. “Like see that lady up at the right hand corner of the bar? Mid-forties? Expensive outfit, perfect hair, but hair long like she’s trying to look younger? Newly divorced. Hanging with other divorced friends. Wanting to see what is out there.”
“You don’t know any of that.”
He grins wickedly at me. “I know, but isn’t it interesting to think about the story behind the stranger?”
My breath catches in my throat. My God, this Ginger Boy is not like any man I have ever met. He’s smart. Observant. Gorgeous.
And utterly fascinating.
So we spend the next few hours watching people and spinning stories about them. We’re laughing and drink
ing and he even orders us some food. So while noshing on lobster nachos, we share little bits about our lives. I confide in him about loving vintage things, and my dream of eventually selling aprons made of antique fabrics, when the time is right. I tell him I like to bake, I love the movie The Holiday, and I have a whole organized file folder of all the things I want to do once my career is where I want it to be and I’m married. Once my life is in place, I tell him.
Ginger Boy, as I now call him in my head, tells me he’s a mess when it comes to organization, that he misses the snow at Christmastime in Boston, but loves the beautiful Texas nights. He’s an avid reader, everything and anything, and can’t live without his beloved Dunkin’ Donuts coffee in the mornings. He has two dogs and runs with them every day. He’s a news junkie and loves reading The Dallas Morning News with his coffee . . .
And before I know it, it’s late. Very late.
I have spent hours with the most fascinating man I have ever met, and now it’s time to say goodbye.
The waitress brings us the tab and Ginger Boy goes to get it. I quickly snatch it from him.
“Hey, let me have that,” he says.
I shake my head. “Nope. On me. For being so nice about the shirt.”
And before he can protest, I hand the waitress my credit card on top of the bill.
“I’ll be right back,” she says, smiling.
Now we are quiet. The bill comes back, I sign, and then we both stand up to leave.
We move through the lobby, pausing by the table with the gorgeous flowers in luxurious vases.
I bite my lip. Break your rules, Kylie. Tell him you want to have a drink with him again. Ask him first.
Are you kidding? Guys don’t like when girls are aggressive, my other voice screams. Think of all the quizzes you have taken. No, no, no. If he is interested he’ll ask.
“Well,” Ginger Boy says, raking a hand through his glorious curls, “this has been a pleasure tonight.”
My heart beats rapidly. “It has.”
“So . . .?”
“So . . .?” I say, hoping he’ll ask me for my number.
“So I guess this is goodbye,” Ginger Boy says.
My heart absolutely sinks. Right. He even said he doesn’t pick up people in bars, and I guess that would be me now, wouldn’t it?
I force a smile onto my face. “Of course. No bar pick-ups, right?”
I watch as his eyes flicker. “Right. It’s against your rules.”
Fuck. I hate my rules.
But before I can say anything, he extends his hand to me.
“Goodnight,” he says.
I take his hand in mine, feeling his warm and rough skin. He definitely does something physical with them, but what exactly that is shall forever be a mystery to me.
“Thank you,” I say softly.
“No, thank you,” he says in return.
We stare at each other for a moment.
Then Ginger Boy turns to leave.
He goes a few feet before I stop him.
“Wait!”
He stops and turns around. I go up to him.
“I . . . I just want to know your name,” I ask.
He smiles. “Harrison. Sometimes people call me Harry.”
And then he turns and strolls out the door and into the Dallas night.
Chapter 3
The Pop Quiz Questions: Do you believe in relationship omens?
A) No.
B) Sometimes I think people do get a sign about someone.
C) I never have until this very moment.
His name is Harrison.
Harry.
My God is he my Prince Harry?
I stare at Harrison as he goes to the valet stand outside. My heart jumps inside my chest.
This is a sign.
It has to be a sign.
I have just had the best conversation I’ve ever had with a man and his name is Harrison. He’s gorgeous, he’s smart, he listens, he’s observant—
And he’s leaving.
Go after him, a voice inside my head whispers. Go out there and tell Harrison you want to have coffee with him. Do it. Do it now, or you’ll regret it.
No! the other side of my head screams back. If he liked you, he’d ask for your number. Guys don’t want to be pursued. Every quiz you have ever taken, every article you have clipped from women’s magazines makes that clear—
I stare at him outside in the Dallas night, patiently waiting among the throng of people at the valet stand.
Suddenly he turns. Our eyes meet again.
Electricity shoots through me as I think I see the same longing that I’m feeling reflected back into those stunning green eyes.
Fuck it. I’m going to do it. I’ll regret it if I—
“Kylie, there you are.”
I turn and see one of Candace’s bridesmaids hurrying toward me.
Oh no. I will the size zero blonde in pink hurrying toward me to trip. Trip, so I can run outside before Harrison leaves.
I glance back at Harrison, who is still looking at me.
“Candace is about to throw her bouquet but we are waiting on you,” Julianne cries gleefully as I turn to her. “Let’s go.”
“Give me just a second,” I say quickly. “There’s someone outside I need to talk to—”
“Pippa,” she says firmly, smiling sweetly at me, “we can’t keep the bride waiting. It’s her day, remember?
Then she gives my arm a tug in the direction of the ballroom.
“Just one minute,” I cry, trying to jerk my arm back. “I just need a second.”
“Oh thank God you’ve found her, Julianne,” my mother declares, approaching. “Kylie, where have you been? You do realize you’re missing your brother’s wedding reception? They’re about to leave. Now let’s go.”
“But—”
“No buts,” my mother says firmly. “And what’s so important out here in the lobby anyway?
I look out the glass doors. Harrison is walking around to the driver’s side of a very expensive-looking Range Rover.
My heart lurches as he climbs inside.
The opportunity is gone.
My indecision—my awful gift of being unsure about everything—has now cost me the chance to possibly get to know Harrison.
“Now, Kylie,” my mother says firmly.
I swallow hard and head back toward the ballroom as my mom and Julianne chat excitedly about the bouquet tossing.
I don’t say a word because I don’t care.
Because all I can think about is one thing.
Harrison.
And I just can’t help but wonder if I have just let my own Prince Harry slip right through my fingers.
“So that’s the end of the story?” Gretchen asks, her hazel eyes wide. “That’s where you’re going to let it end?”
I listlessly push my banana bread French toast around on my plate. I have just told my best friend, and roommate, everything about Harrison last night as we eat brunch outside on a patio in Uptown, the part of Dallas that is full of the young, hip, and upwardly mobile people. I take a deep breath and toy with my fork.
“But what else can I do, Gretchen? I only know his name is Harrison,” I say. “What can I do? Google ‘Harrison + Dallas’?”
Gretchen adjusts her sunglasses. “Hello? Yes. Then you move to Connectivity, Twitter, and Facebook. You have to at least try.”
I sigh in exasperation. “And then what? Go to his house, ring the doorbell, and say, ‘Hi, Harrison! Remember me? The girl who fell into your lap at the Rattlesnake Bar? Well, I’ve done endless hours of cyber stalking and found you. Not that you should be alarmed and all, but after poring over everything related to Ha
rrison and Dallas, I found you, researched your address, and hunted you down. So would you like to hit Starbucks for a latte?”
“What if he’s just flattered that you found him?”
“Or what if he calls the police because I’m a stalker?” I ask. “No, I can’t do it.”
“But even if you don’t do anything, aren’t you curious to see if you can find him?”
“Of course,” I admit, putting my fork down. “But what’s the point of that? Self-torture?”
Gretchen nods and takes a sip of her coffee. “But he was really hotter than Prince Harry?”
I sigh. “Yes,” I say, thinking of his red curls and broad, muscular shoulders. The striking green eyes—
“And he never mentioned what he did for a living?” Gretchen asks, interrupting my thoughts. “That’s really odd.”
I bite my lip. “No, he didn’t. But maybe he figured it didn’t matter since we were never going to see each other again.”
“Hmmm. And he had that super-expensive Range Rover?”
“Yes,” I say slowly.
“Maybe he’s a drug dealer,” Gretchen says excitedly. “And maybe that’s why he didn’t let it go any further.”
“Yes, Gretchen, because all drug dealers hang out at the Ritz,” I deadpan.
“Exotic dancer?”
I burst out laughing. “He has the body for it, but doubtful.”
The waitress comes by and places our check on the table between us.
“Anyway, it’s irrelevant now,” I say softly. “My chance is gone.”
“I’m sorry, Kylie,” Gretchen says. “I’ve never heard you talk about any guy like this except for Josh.”
I nod. Josh was my boyfriend while we were at SMU. We met our sophomore year, and were together until the summer before my senior year. Josh said we were getting too serious, that he needed time to sort things out, and asked to take a “break.” I was devastated, spent most of my senior year in a blue fog, and came out of it to realize that we weren’t meant to be. That someone else is in store for me. Of course, I jokingly told my friends I’d be content to wait for Prince Harry.
