“Well, may I say, George, purely for the joy of spreading good feeling, no strings attached, that you are one serious treat for the eyes.”
He looked taken aback, and the hawk-nosed bartender rinsing a glass next to him sniggered before moving down the bar to serve another customer.
“Uh…thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” She lifted the drink to him and took a sip, then closed her eyes to let the sweet-sour fruity taste register. “And that is one hell of a martini. You’re an artist, too.”
“Yeah?” He put the lid on the shaker and shook, a smile trying to break through. “Thanks again.”
“You’re welcome again. I’m Jenny, by the way. Nice to meet you.”
She winked and he managed to look friendly that time, straining the drink into a waiting glass. His co-worker, who’d moved back into hearing range, raised his nearly joined eyebrows and mouthed “go for it” not very subtly.
“No, no, no.” Jenny waggled her finger at him. “I said no strings and I meant it.”
He snorted and mumbled something undoubtedly snarky.
Jenny frowned. “What’s your name, bartender-who-is-not-George?”
“Chaz.”
“Pay attention, Chaz.” She gave him her most insincere smile. “When a guy tells a woman she’s beautiful, it means, ‘I want to sleep with you.’ Right?”
He shrugged sullenly. “Maybe.”
“Get this. When a woman tells a guy he’s attractive, she means, strangely enough—” she spread her hands “—that he’s attractive.”
Chaz shot her a dirty look and Jenny patted the bar sympathetically, unable to reach his arm. “Complicated, I know. You keep working at it, it’ll come to you.”
George chuckled outright. His co-worker rolled his eyes and moved to serve his next drink.
Jenny grinned and toasted George with her brilliant orange martini. Nothing in the world was more freeing and wonderful than not worrying what anyone thought, saying what you wanted to say, letting other people’s uptight judgment roll off you. Especially when you’d grown up so enslaved by those very things. George didn’t mind having an attractive woman tell him he was hot—why would he? His friend could go trash-diving in the East River.
Nothing could bother her tonight anyway. She was a woman on a mission—all dressed up with somewhere to go. Ryan Masterson’s oldest sister, Anne, happy to hear from Jenny, had been a rich and willing source of information on her younger brother, including that Ryan would be using her ballet tickets tonight, though he would only tell his sister he was taking “a friend,” which for a normal guy meant a woman he hadn’t been able to get into the sack yet. In Ryan’s case, however, it would mean a woman he wasn’t interested in getting into the sack, because there was no way any age-of-consent female could resist him.
In Jenny’s completely unbiased opinion.
Of course he could mean a male friend, but men taking men to the ballet involved a change in Ryan Masterson that would be so utterly tragic for womankind the globe over that Jenny wouldn’t even consider it.
Anne had managed to worm out of him that he and this “friend” were hitting Café des Artistes for a drink and maybe a bite after. So here sat Jenny, resplendent—if she did say so herself—in her sexiest black slit-up-to-there skirt and equally sexy “is-she-naked?” black lace top, lined with flesh-colored fabric that happened to be a nearly exact match of her skin tone.
Quite a coincidence she happened to be in the same bar tonight, wasn’t it? But who could resist the opportunity to peek? Of course she could have called him, or shown up at his apartment, but a supposedly chance encounter was so much more fun and risky and exciting, and it gave her the opportunity to spy on him in his natural habitat and see what vibe she got before she spoke to him, since she was positive he wouldn’t recognize her at first glance.
Anne seemed pretty sure he wasn’t dating anyone seriously or exclusively, so it wasn’t as if Jenny was out of line. She was an old friend! And if he seemed hot and heavy with his date tonight, she’d say “Ryan is that you?” and “Gee, how long has it been?” and “Great to see you!” and go home none the worse for wear.
Okay, perhaps a micro-bit disappointed. Be serious. This was Ryan Masterson.
And if his friend did turn out to be a friend—or a colleague—then maybe the door would be wide open. She was the kind of women who walked through wide-open doors now, instead of cowering at the threshold wondering if she should knock on the jamb.
She couldn’t wait to see how Ryan reacted to this new truer version of herself and she couldn’t wait to satisfy her curiosity as to how much he’d really changed. Possibly no one but Ryan had ever glimpsed this long-suppressed other side of her before the book and her metamorphosis. But in all their admittedly brief time together, she hadn’t sensed even the faintest hint of inner blandness in him.
She turned for the hundredth time to check the door, when a dark-suited tall man—guess who?—walked in.
Oh, my. Oh, my my my. Someone tell her heart to slow down or she’d lose at least a month off her life. He was still—He was soo—
“Need another drink?”
“No, George.” She didn’t take her eyes off Ryan, though she tried not to stare too openly in case he saw her before she was ready. “A drink is not what I need right at this moment.”
“Him?” He made a sound of amused disgust. “Women are so fickle.”
“Oh, yes.” She threw an apologetic glance over her shoulder. “We are, aren’t we. But he is…I mean he’s…well just look.”
“If you say so.”
Jenny fixed George with a stare. “You’re not gay, are you George.”
“Nope.”
“I thought not.” She turned back to drink in the sight of Ryan, who was pulling out a chair for his unfortunately stunning blond companion. “You couldn’t possibly understand.”
“I guess not.”
Ryan smiled and leaned forward, listening to his date, apparently fascinated. But…politely fascinated. His features were alert, but his eyes were neutral. He wasn’t turning on…The Sex Look. Jenny had been on the receiving end of that look many times. It was unmistakable. And lethal. The places he’d gotten her to say “yes” with just that look…well it was a miracle they’d never been arrested.
“George, send Mr. Perfection a drink from me, would you?”
“While he’s with someone else?”
She smiled at the distaste in his voice. “Believe it or not he’s an old friend. Grew up down the street from me.”
“No kidding.”
“Edible, isn’t he.” She rested her chin on her hand and stared her fill. “The One That Got Away.”
“I have one of those.” George’s voice sounded nearly as wistful as hers. “I’d buy her a drink even if she showed up with Russell Crowe.”
“Ha!” Jenny turned to him. “She’d go for you way before that temperamental slab of beef.”
He grinned and Jenny returned to her high-level spying. Ryan was laughing at something Ms. Blond Perfection had just said. Hmm…
“George.”
“Yeah.”
“Make him…a seven and seven, please. Tell the waiter to say, ‘Seven and seven and seventh heaven.’” Jenny wrinkled her nose. “And whatever she orders I better pay for that, too.”
“I’m