Page 82 of Blurry Little Lines
“You did, Miranda. It’s over. Not that we had much to begin with.”
Her brown locks whip around as she turns on her red-sole heels, which I still believeIoverpaid for.
Like a predator tracking its prey, guests and employees pretend to mind their own business, but their side-eyes sear through me. Miranda struts out of my family’s hotel with brisk intention, swaying her hips as if walking to a beat. My father sure as hell isn’t going to let me live this one down. Not only does he hate the way I view relationships, but he also despises any type of negative energy our family can bring to our business, Wheaton Hotels. I run a hand through my hair, square my shoulders and narrow my eyes with warning toward the front desk staff. I dare one of them to mention this to my father. I huff, bringing my fingers up to my neck to loosen my tie. It still isn’t enough to relieve built-up tension from work and shit with Miranda.
I shouldn’t still be in my work suit at this hour, but a strong drink before I head up to my room is long overdue. Miranda and I didn’t get the chance to hook up this week, and I’d rather someone other than my right hand to get me off. Commitment is no use when most women only want my last name for their bank account.
My eyes dragged across the polished marble floor leading to the baby grand piano my fingers keep itching to play. Very few people know that on off-hours, I can play the keys as good as the damn people we hire. Getting lost in the keys is a way to channel my frustration with how women can’t seem to accept the fact that I’m casual. Work is up to my balls and we are in full swing of our busy season. I don’t have time for women wanting more. Our Aspen location has been up and running for just over a month, but still has hiccups requiring visits.
My eyes land on the bar when blonde curls catch my eye. I wouldn’t have noticed her at first glance if it weren’t for her hair. Her dress blends into the dark-blue diamond-tucked leather booths. Her elbows rest on the black polished bar counter with a drink in hand. I glance at Max, my childhood best friend slash bartender, with questioning eyes that he silently understands. He’s been my wingman since I was a kid trying to hit on my babysitter. His nod signifies she’s here alone.
Rolling up the sleeves of my white button-up shirt, I expose my muscular forearms. For some reason, women eat this look up. A lonesome woman at a hotel bar during these late hours tends to signify she’s probably on the prowl for someone. The tapping of her foot draws my eyes immediately to the floor and thoughts of her long legs wrapped tightly around my face flash through my mind.
Damn, how long has it been since I last got laid?
I walk up to the counter and don’t directly look her way. This game is far too easy. The typicalmake them hope you look their way or notice them. Within a minute, Blondie should be smiling when I look over, and then she’ll tell me, “Hey.” Or something along those lines. As delectable as she is for a one-night stand, I hope she’s from out of town and doesn’t care to be contacted again. The last thing I need is another clingy female who thinks she can change me. I sit a couple seats over as Max hands me my top-shelf bourbon. I swing my eyes in her direction, but she pays me no attention. Must be one of those women who won’t make the first move. I test the waters to rile her up since Miranda is out of the picture.
“Ah, a gorgeous, lonely girl at the bar.” I smile her way.
“Ah, a charming fella who never hears the wordno.” Her eyes keep forward as her lips press together in a thin line, biting back a smirk.
“I didn’t ask a question that required hearing the wordno,” I say as her head bows down to her side dish of maraschino cherries.
Something a damn twelve-year-old would order.
“You never need to.” Her head angles my way, peeking through her lashes, and piercing haunted emeralds raid every breath of oxygen as they look through my soul. “You smile like that and women throw themselves at you. As if they’re doingyoua favor.”
Max snickers from the truth in her sass as he wipes down an already clean counter. I hold back my amusement and let the amber liquid burn through my chest. Sassy and intelligent. Thoughts of making her beg once I have her at my mercy play through my mind. I want her against the wall, dripping wet and arching herself into me as she begs for the release of her arousal. My wicked smile grows, and Max shakes his head, reading my well-predicted mind. She looks bored as her delicate fingers pop a cherry in her mouth without a single sexual innuendo. Yet my pea brain imagines her fingers wrapping around my cock as her lips pop over my tip.
The fucking male brain is a curse to live with at times.
I take note and survey her naked fingers. There’s no sign of an engagement ring and she’s showing no interest in my charm. She’s either a lesbian or about to be engaged. I can’t imagine she’d stay single for long. She could be batshit crazy, and even then, her looks could manipulate a sucker.
“You’re strikingly beautiful.” She turns her face directly toward me, and I confirm that wasn’t a lie.
Her blonde locks waterfall softly down her back. Her plump lips look so kissable on her innocent face. I then take in her youthful features. It is possible she just turned twenty-one and is too young for me. Her blue dress hugs all the right curves, making her body look more mature than she possibly is. Her face is free of makeup except for long, dark lashes. The lack of face paint in comparison to most girls I take home should be a red flag. Clearly, I’ve mistaken her for my usualtype. But those eyes. They’re a vortex sucking me in, as if she’s hiding secrets to the world but desperate to hand someone the key.
“You have the type of face I’d have a hard time forgetting,” I try again.
Her shoulders shrug as her eyes crease, showing a hint of humor. “That is where our problems would start.”
“I take it you have a boyfriend?” I tip back the rest of my drink, my eyes never leaving hers. “Waiting for true love?”
“Never.” Her mouth articulates dramatically without actually making a sound.
“Lesbian?” I try to lighten the weight of our conversation that’s clearly not going my way. “Fugitive on the run?”
“Not tonight.” Boredom laces her voice and her eyes return to being fixated on her drink.
God, asking someone to give away their dog seems like an easier job than getting this woman to show the slightest bit of interest.
Max clears his throat, trying to save me from humiliation. “Can you hang that photo before you head out?”
I reach behind the counter for the hammer and a few nails before heading over to the wall. My mother and sister came up with the stupid idea to have a wall full of our favorite portraits from our family travels. Tacky if you ask me, but what Kelsie and my mother say design wise, it’s always accepted by my father. My knuckle meets the wall as I listen for the hollow sound to stop on a stud. I enjoy tasks like this. They aren’t in my CFO job description, but they make me feel normal.
Well, as normal as I can feel growing up in aluxuryhotel in downtown San Francisco.
Out of the corner of my peripheral, I catch a glimpse of Blondie eyeing me with raised eyebrows. I feel judgment radiating off her smirk as she pops another damn cherry between her teeth, holding the stem between her fingers until she decides to pull it off. As if waiting for me to fail, her arms fold against the bar top as her eyes taunt me. Her doubt is clear that a man in a tailored Armani suit can’t hang shit. I hold the nail in place as her tongue darts out to wet her lips. It’s more than likely to lick the cherry juice off instead of an innuendo, unless she’s playing the innocent card. But it’s enough for my pants to grow tighter.