Chapter Five: “The Notorious Rake”
Chapter Five
“The Notorious Rake”
SHE LOOKED UP. A RATHER STRIKING MAN STARED DOWN AT HER
, hands on his hips. “Uh. Hi.”
“You can’t be leaving. We just met.”
Now
that
was a smile. It rendered the cheesy line charming.
Oh, God. Swan wasn’t ready for this. This lanky-limbed, broad-shouldered, tanned-wrinkles-at-the-corners-of-his-eyes, eight-o’clock-shadowed, tall-iced-unbrella’d-cocktail of a man.
She made a point of looking back at the bill, but he said, “May I?” and before she could answer, he sat down on the opposite end of the long chesterfield, leaving a respectful distance between them. “Cheers,” he said, and for a stupid moment she thought he was toasting her. But when she looked up at him, he was gazing out into the room. “It’s crowded, yeah?” And she realized he hadn’t been toasting her; he was British. Cheers as in: thanks. Cheers as in: I don’t need your permission, but I’m a gentleman so I asked anyway. Cheers as in: buckle up, toots.
Sewanee returned to the bill, but he loomed in her peripheral. She took a swig of her drink and set it down.
He signaled to the waitress. He unbuttoned the jacket of a nice suit. He loosened his oxblood tie. He shifted his body toward her, tucking one foot behind the opposite knee, throwing an arm
over the back of the couch. He moved with a feline simplicity, a traffic cop expertly directing cars in multiple directions, all while asking, “What are you drinking, then?”
Hearing more of the accent, Sewanee revised her previous assessment. Irish.
Maybe she’d been jaded by men like Chuck and Jimbo and the others that came before them, but her defenses were up. So she adopted the accent of the girl at the panel, giving herself some distance, some cover. “Gin.”
“A dry gin, it seems.”
She glanced at her glass on the table in front of her. It was empty. She’d finished it.
“Vegas bars. Charging for air.”
Sewanee bit back the grin she felt beginning. She sought something else to focus on. There were only so many times she could examine a bill. But then Mr. What-the-Hell-Is-Happening asked, “What would you say to a quick drink?”
“Actually,” she began, uncrossing her legs only to cross them again, this time away from him, “I have to–”
“It’s all I’m good for.” The waitress appeared. “Seriously.” He gave the waitress
that
smile. “What’s the news, lass?” Then, back to Sewanee, “Gin martini, is it?”
The waitress picked up Sewanee’s glass. “She’s actually having the Last Word.”
He looked at Sewanee. Directly at her. “As she should. And so shall I.”
The waitress paused. “You know what it is, right? I mean, she’s the first person to order it in months. It’s–”
“Equal parts green Chartreuse, lime juice, and maraschino liqueur–do you use Luxardo? The Luxardo family’s been making it since 1821–oh, and one of their little black cherries for garnish.”
Sewanee grinned to cover her surprise and drawled, “You forgot the gin.”
“Just giving you the last word.”
This guy’s smirk put a young Harrison Ford on notice.
Sewanee passed her the signed receipt, including an excessive happy-holidays-someone-else-is-paying tip, and the waitress said, “Carter will bring them right out.”
She left and Sewanee sat back on the couch, deciding to enjoy this, whatever this was. “You’re good.”
“Engh, I’m an arse, I promise, just wait.”
Maybe it was his easy manner. Maybe it was the broad chest underneath that dress shirt. Maybe it was the accent, even for her, someone who could do the accent herself. Maybe it was as simple as a nice man in a nice suit. There were a few reasons this was working for her.
But why was it working for
him
? Why had he chosen her? She realized her hair had fallen forward in a way that obscured her eye patch. She hadn’t done it intentionally. What was intentional, however, was how she deliberately pushed her hair back now. She faced him head-on, hiding nothing, challenging everything.
He didn’t flinch. He didn’t blink. He just smiled again. “So, whaddaya say we get to know each other a wee bit?” He gazed out into the bar and said, dryly, “Or we can find the nearest chapel, as you’re obviously mad for me.”
She snorted.
“Right, I’ll go first. Here’s what you’ll be wanting to know.” He shifted his body in a way that effortlessly brought him closer to her. “I’m flying to Dublin in three hours. My bag is checked with the host and I’m happy to show you the claim ticket, if you wish. That takes care of any possible funny business. I’m here for one drink with a beautiful woman to distract me from the
disaster that was today. Las Vegas is supposed to be craic, yeah? Well, I’ve been here thirty-six hours and it’s been absolute shite for the entirety of them.”
“It hasn’t been great to me, either.”
Vindicated, he slapped his knee. “It’s false advertising is what it is!”
“You want to speak to Vegas’s manager?”
“Nah. This is the chat I’m wanting to have.” There was a brief someone-say-something moment and a narrow-shouldered, elvish-looking server appeared and set their drinks down. “Impeccable timing, mate.” The server blushed slightly. This man’s effect was universal. He turned to Sewanee, lifted his glass. “To . . .” His face went blank. “Vegas? No, that’s idiotic. To life? No, that’s horrid. To . . .”
Sewanee leaned forward, caught his eye. “To,” she said.
He smiled again. “We’ll leave it at that, then. To.”
They clinked glasses and took a thoughtful sip. When they were done, she set down her glass, looked at him. Raised her eyebrow.
Well?
He gazed steadily back at her. A verdict had been reached. “Perfect. I believe I’m in love,” he said, right at her.
Something deep inside of Sewanee twitched, once, like the flank of a hibernating bear. She looked away. The Irishman brought her back to him, setting down his drink and reaching out his hand. “Nick.”
She took his hand, debated for about half a second. “Alice.”
This wasn’t real. None of this was real. She didn’t feel like herself tonight so why should she
be
herself tonight? He had a good handshake. He had good fingers. She checked them for a ring. Only one, on the middle finger of his right hand. Odd placement, but safe.
She pulled back and reached immediately for her drink again. “Where are you from?” she asked. Although she had adopted the
accent of that girl from the panel, she was careful to leave out the nasality and grating uptalk because . . . just no.
“Ireland.” At her eye roll, he chuckled. “That obvious? Dublin.”
Sewanee cocked her head at him. “North or South?” He cocked his head at her. “Your accent.”
He smiled wider. “What about it?”
“It’s muddled.” Honestly, Ron’s vampire Seamus sounded more authentic.
“Well, if you must know, Henry Higgins, I grew up all over the place. Divorced parents.” He plucked up his drink, took another sip. “You?”
“Texas.”
He made a doubting face. “Sounds more like East Virginia to me.”
“Do you think there’s a state called East Virginia?”
“Well,” he said, taking another sip. “There’s a West Virginia.”
This shouldn’t have been as charming as it was. But a few Last Words in . . .
BlahBlah was right. Swan should make the most of it. She was in a designer dress, perfectly coiffed, Adaku would be back in four hours, and he was leaving in three. It was a Cinderella-at-the-ball situation. Everything would be over by midnight, but in the meantime . . . do it, Swan.
“I know I said one drink, but I’m thinking we’ve got more to say. Shall we get another round started?” Nick asked her.
If Adaku were perched on her shoulder, Sewanee knew exactly what she’d say right now: Him!
“Hold that thought.” She picked up her phone. “I just got a text.” She hadn’t. She pretended to read it. She didn’t. “Ah. My friend. She can’t make it to dinner. Bummer.” She looked back at Nick and something passed briefly across his eyes. Nothing meaningful, but something all the same. He looked away, held
the coupe glass up to the light emanating from the crystal chandelier above them, and rolled the stem between two of those fingers. Then he plucked up the toothpick sitting in the drink, put it to his mouth. He slowly slid the black cherry off with his lips.
“So,” she heard herself say, “I have a reservation at a place with tremendously thick steaks and bottles of wine that cost more than my monthly car payment and I’m going to charge everything to my friend’s expense account.” She quickly added, “She told me to. In the text. I would never just do something like–”
stop talking
“–do you have the time to join me?”
Nick smoothly turned, caught the server’s eye. “Check, please, thank you so much.” He looked back at Sewanee, toothpick rolling to a languid stop in the right corner of his mouth. “I’m starving.”
She picked up her own toothpick, considered the cherry. “Me too,” she said, and slid it into her mouth with her teeth.