by Penny Ward
But Mom was still just as wise—I’ll always remember that about her.
“You must miss her, huh?” Brooke asks, a frown setting in her face.
My mom died of breast cancer just after I turned nineteen.
She lived three years longer than her prognosis and fought it hard, positive she’d beat it until the very end.
But even the best of us have limits.
“Of course, I have my moments,” I say quietly, a tear forming in the corner of my eye.
I blink it away determinedly—I will not be one of those girls who cry when they drink.
“She was such a cool lady. My mom still talks about her; she misses her a lot too.”
I nod and give Brooke’s hand a squeeze. “My mom loved you and Susan. I called in to see your parents before I left—they’re still renovating the kitchen.”
“Oh, don’t remind me. They wanted me to head back this summer and help them with it. Naturally I lied and said I had to work. I feel bad, but can you really see me in overalls and a paintbrush?”
“I don’t know,” I wink, starting to perk up. “I thought you liked role-playing?”
“Hey,” she says, poking out her tongue. “Not that kind of role-playing anyway.”
I gradually steer the conversation away from Colorado and our families.
It’s not that I don’t like to think about them; I do.
But I came to New York for a fresh start, to find excitement and adventure, and not to talk about my old life.
Yet after two more cocktails, I find the conversation steering too far in the wrong direction…
“You seriously don’t think the guy from Arrow is like the hottest guy you’ve ever seen?” she asks.
I look at Brooke like the shallow yet lovable young woman that she is.
She hasn’t changed one bit since she left Colorado six years ago. She’s still completely boy crazy and vain, but that’s just one layer. Brooke has a warmer side too, a down-to-earth and caring nature that always comes out when it needs to.
“Yes, he’s attractive,” I state, clearly humoring her. “But come on, that show is a joke! It pays absolutely no homage to the original comics, so I just can’t watch it. I want the real story.”
Brooke groans and rolls her eyes.
I know what that means—she’s about to ambush me with some personal advice.
“Lauren, you’re my best friend and I love you, but here’s a little heads up: You’re in NEW YORK now, sitting in the Red Peacock Bar. So if you want to get laid again ever, don’t mention the comic book thing to guys, particularly in here.”
I shake my head amusingly and take a sip from my cocktail. The peacock dew droplet is a combination of Hendricks’s Gin, fresh lime, aloe vera, and muddled cucumber, and it’s truly sensational.
But for thirty dollars a pop it would want to be!
“I am who I am. And guys dig comic books, Brooke,” I finally say, holding my head up confidently in an effort to tease her. “You’d be surprised.”
She falls for the bait instantly. “Um yeah, if you’re referring to the nerdy ones. Ew.”
Brooke gives a flick of her long, ash-blond hair, smoothing it over with her hands.
She always could pull off being a blonde better than me, a stunning aspect to her that had always outshone my less platinum and more natural tone.
That’s partly why I dyed my hair a dark reddish-brown, so people wouldn’t keep measuring us up against each other.
Well, that and the fact that this color complements my “vastly russet eyes” more.
Or so the hair stylist had told me.
“You’re too gorgeous. As if I’d hook you up with a nerd!” Brooke slams her hand on the table like she’s a force to be reckoned with, only to break out into hysterics moments later.
“Okay, I’m confiscating this cocktail now. How many did you have before I got here?” I’m guessing she had at least two.
“Oh, I’m fine,” she says, brushing my hand away as I take her glass. “I just want you to have fun. This is your first official taste of New York nightlife. Why not make it a steamy bite! Now, do you see anyone you like?”
“What?”
The last thing I had in mind for tonight was to get with some guy I met in a bar, albeit it’s a classy one.
But it’s painfully obvious that Brooke has other ideas and that I’m merely a pawn in a bigger plan for tonight...
Chapter Four
“Do you see anyone cute?” Brooke asks me again.
“I thought this was supposed to be a girls’ night out?” I ask, yet know that it won’t be.
Brooke used to do this all the time back in Colorado: she’d organize a girls-only night out and then wham, barely an hour into it she’d be making out with some guy in a dark corner.
“It is,” she insists. “And what do girls like to do on girls’ nights out?”
I decide to keep playing the clueless friend. “I don’t know, Brooke. Enlighten me.”
“They check out guys!” she half yells, arms flinging out. “And if you’re lucky, maybe a bit of—”
I interrupt her at that point. “Okay, stop. Look, I know where you’re going with this, but I have no desire to hook up with anyone tonight.”
“Um, why the hell not?” By the look on her face you’d think I’d murdered someone.
“Because I just got to New York,” I say, widening my eyes for effect. “I want to check out the place first and get settled in. All the other stuff can wait.”
Brooke flicks her hair again, a clear sign that she’s getting frustrated.
“You can’t be serious?” she slurs. “If I was in your shoes I would be eating this opportunity up like it was a strawberry-flavored cock!”
I laugh and gag on my cocktail at the same time, gin spurting all over the place.
“A strawberry-flavored what?” I spatter, wiping my chin.
But before she can even answer, we are both laughing away like two youthful enchantresses who’ve had one too many sips of potion.
Despite Brooke’s immaturity at times, I’ve missed her wicked prowess.
We’re complete opposites when it comes to men, so it’s always interesting to see her perspective on things.
She’s always been the forthcoming one, with a string of flings that even Marilyn Monroe couldn’t compete with, while I’ve always been the reserved one, preferring more serious relationships than mere one-night stands.
Brooke also tends to go for businessmen and footballers, whereas my criteria for a man are a lot stricter.
“You know you haven’t changed one bit since high school?”
“I do know that, actually,” Brooke replies bouncily before she polishes off the rest of her cocktail. “What’s that saying? Oh yeah: a leopard never changes its spots! Now let’s get back to it. I’m not giving up on you just yet.”
I watch on powerlessly as Brooke begins to scan the room. A hunt for potential male hookups is, as I suspected, her real motive for tonight.
But secretly, I don’t mind that much.
It’d be nice to be admired by the men in this bar.
Clearly, they are the upper echelon of New York society.
And my confidence can always do with a little kick…
Chapter Five
Around me everything hums, morsels of conversation drifting in and out of my ears like incoherent noises.
There’s a song playing somewhere, a tune that I’ve heard before, a classic.
But as I listen out for the lyrics, I feel the cocktails finally taking effect, my skin buzzing with a pleasant feeling of weightlessness.
“Okay, what about those two?”
I quickly decide to forget about the song for now and turn to see Brooke staring across the room.
There are heaps of men in here—it’s a full bar on a Saturday night.
She could have her eyes on anyone.
“Brooke,” I sigh, a slight titter also rolling off my tongue. “You’r
e going to have to give me a bit more than that to go on.”
She looks back at me humorously, the sarcasm practically seeping off her face.
“Three o’clock. Fourth table to your right. Two men. One is in a tailored navy blue suit and open white collar. The other one is in a charcoal gray with a black collar. Both are drinking whiskey. Both are likely to be very well hung.”
Ha.
Now that is specific.
I subtly glance around to snare a peek.
The two men actually aren’t hard to notice at all; I think Brooke has chosen the most attractive guys in the whole bar.
And…
No. Fricken. Way.
You’ve got to be kidding me.
There’s uncanny and then there’s this.
“I can’t,” I remark, my eyes still fixed on the two men.
“Ah, why not?”
“Because…” I’d forgotten to tell Brooke about my little stumble outside earlier. And now I’m not sure I even want to. It’s humiliating enough as it is.
“Oh come on Lauren,” Brooke pleads. “They’re so hot!”
“Um, not to be a killjoy…but what makes you think they’ll be interested? They could be married or have girlfriends.”
And by girlfriends, what I really meant are models that would otherwise be hanging off their arms.
But Brooke is grinning in such a way that I automatically know she’s about to say something scandalous.
“I’ve never been worried about a little baggage before—all’s fair in love and war,” she says, tilting her head sassily to one side.
“Brooke! You might not have a moral compass but I certainly do. And no amount of lethal gin cocktails is going to change that!”
“Ha. We’ll see!” she half bellows, raising an eyebrow.
I scowl at her and take a second look at the two men while she orders another round of drinks.
The one in the navy blue, the “shining white knight” who rescued me from face planting on the sidewalk earlier, is the solid knockout of the duo, with clean-cut, stylishly waxed, light-brown hair and a neatly manicured face, the kind that you would associate with the ruggedly handsome look.
I can’t believe he thinks I’m a gold digger.
If only that stupid cab driver had kept his opinions to himself!
Unlike his friend—who, don’t get me wrong, is also extremely good-looking—this guy seems more like the kind of man who wants to stand out in the crowd and be admired.
He’s probably gifted with a trust fund and a gift-of-gab complex too, no doubt, and probably works for some money-hungry corporation.
Yet despite my palpable appraisal of his character, I can’t help but wonder about what he looks like underneath that five-thousand-dollar suit.
But just as I begin to envision it…the naked, hairless chest and taut, strong arms…he sharply turns his head to the side, his eyes squinting at me curiously.
Crap.
I’m completely busted.
I quickly spin back to face the bar, my heart beating so fast it feels like it’s about to leap out of my chest.
“He saw me!” I gasp, putting my hand up to my face.
It’s a stupid thing to do, really, as if that’s going to stop him from seeing me.
“Who saw you?” Brooke asks, sliding over the cocktail.
She passes a one hundred dollar note over to the bartender, followed by a wink. “Keep the change, Mike.”
“The navy blue suit over there,” I say, panicking. “Don’t look!”
But what does she go and do?
“I said don’t look!”
“Sorry, but at least you got his attention. Hmm…you know, he reminds me of someone. But I just can’t put my finger on who…” Brooke taps her long, bright-red fingernails on the bar, clearly thinking out loud. “But at the very least he’s a lookalike for the Arrow guy, if I ever saw one.”
“Oh don’t start on that again,” I hurl.
She’s completely obsessed with that actor!
“It’s not like I’m obsessed with him or anything,” she says defensively, like she’s read my thoughts. “I just…appreciate similar male forms, that’s all.”
“Right,” I say, taking a huge gulp of gin. “Is he still looking?”
“Uh-huh. And I’m going to get him over here…”
“What? No!” I protest but I’m already too late—Brooke is astutely waving the suit down. Oh my gosh.
This is not happening.
I awkwardly look back over my shoulder only to catch his eyes again, a piercing command to them that for some reason I find hard to break away from.
What is in these cocktails, some kind of love potion?
I don’t usually have this reaction when I see a stranger on a night out.
Wait.
Stranger…night…
‘Strangers in the Night’ by Frank Sinatra, that’s the song that was playing earlier! As if this situation couldn’t get any tackier.
“I can’t believe you just did that!” I bark at Brooke, who is sitting there looking very pleased with herself.
“Why? He’s obviously interested.”
“Because I told you I didn’t want to hook up with anyone tonight. I thought this was just going to be a fun, casual night out?”
“It is,” she says with another toss of her hair. “Only now it’s going to be really fun!”
“Well I didn’t want any added perks,” I tell her. “It’s bad enough that this place is out of my league. I don’t need some hoity-toity guy judging me tonight as well.”
“Lauren,” Brooke says sternly. “I’m only going to say this one more time: You. Are. Gorgeous. That alone earns you the right to be here.”
I’m not sure I agree with her on that—that’s about as shallow a statement as they come.
“Look, I would’ve preferred to just lay low.”
“Wow,” she exclaims, rolling her eyes at me again. “Your life is so PG-13!”
“What? My life is not PG-13.”
That was completely unfair of her to say… my life is MA rated at least.
But the words dance off Brook’s lips like a poisonous tango. “Oh it so is.”
“No, it’s not!”
“Yes it is!” she persists, eyes tightening on me like a schoolteacher reprimanding a student. “Come on, you only just left Steamboat Springs. Colorado is the only thing you’ve ever known. You’ve been a secretary for most of your life, for crying out loud. It’s time to live a little! And get away from those damn comic books. Fashion and dating, that’s what you should be focusing on right now.”
Fashion and dating?
Is she serious?
Since when has she ever seen me without thick leggings, a long jacket, and snow boots on?
Fashion has never been a main priority for me.
And as for the dating part, I’ve been on lots of dates with guys… just not many second dates.
“Secretary and personal assistant, thank you very much,” I correct her. “And why are you bringing up the comic book thing again? You’re making it sound like I read them religiously. I like old-school comics, okay? But I don’t own a whole collection or anything, so calm down.”
His voice comes out of nowhere, deeply gravelly with a distinct air of authority. “I like comic books.”
I’d almost forgotten about Brooke’s little wave of invitation.
I look up to see the guy in the navy blue suit standing over us, a smirk etched on his perfectly chiseled face.
Damn, he’s even better looking than I remember.
“Hi,” he says, looking straight at me. “Did I hear right? You like comic books?”
His eyes sit like two soft-blue beacons, an intensity burning in them that seems to beg mine for surrender.
Jeez, I must look like a stunned mannequin to him right now. A stunned, tipsy, and beetroot-turning mannequin, that is.
“Lauren loves comic books!” Brooke pipes in before I can answer.
>
Well hasn’t she changed her tune on the topic.
So much for not talking about comics to guys.
“A gold digger that loves comic books. Interesting. May I sit?”
“Absolutely,” Brooke chimes, quickly changing seats so he can squeeze in between us.
I clench my teeth and shoot her a look like I want to strangle her. But in total Brooke Sawyer style, she brushes it off.
The suit assertively sits down next to me, flattening his arms out on the bar before hailing the bartender with a simple nod of his head.
“Another whiskey on the rocks, Mike,” he says before turning back to face me. “So, what comic books are we talking about here? Are you a Marvel fan or more of a DC?”
Let me be clear, I’ve never been a sucker.
Despite the American sweetheart persona that most people typecast me as—which is truer than not—I’ve been hurt one too many times to fall for the whole sweet-talk game.
And this guy is screaming player!
“Look, I apologize for my friend waving you over. She was wrong to do that,” I say pointblank, determined to get rid of him as soon as possible.
It’s not that I don’t find him attractive.
It’s just the opposite: he’s too attractive.
And he thinks I’m a gold digger. That’s not a good first impression.
Besides, I’m not in the mood for being pulled by a man who is only after one thing.
Not on my first night out in New York, anyway.
“And why was she wrong to do that?” he asks, his eyes penetrating further into mine.
Honestly, how does he do that?
How does he make me want to melt and slap him all at once?
“She likes the Green Arrow,” Brooke once again interjects. “She thinks he’s sexy.”
What? I never said that!
“Really? Well that’s weird,” he says puzzlingly, glancing briefly at Brooke. “Because I think your friend Lauren here is really sexy.”
“Oh my gosh, you did not just say that.” I laugh. I knew this guy would be confident, but please.
That’s a pick-up line if I’ve ever heard one.
“Do you always deliver the same cheesy line or do you have them on rotation?” I ask pithily, deliberately batting my eyelashes like a doe on heat.
