Page 21 of Curvy Girl Summer

4

I hate dating.

I closed my eyes as the fruity cocktail swirled around my mouth, dancing across my taste buds. I savored it for a second before swallowing the last of the drink I’d been nursing for half an hour. Between the bartender asking me if I was still waiting for someone every five minutes and the fact that I was still waiting over thirty minutes later, I was in a mood.

“Men fucking suck,” I grumbled aloud.

“Not all men,” a deep voice interrupted my peaceful moment.

My eyes flew open, and my sights landed on the bartender with the toffee complexion, chiseled jaw, and goofy-ass look on his face. My cheeks heated under his gaze. I tried to look away, but the intensity of his eyes, or the intensity of my rage, kept us both locked in.

“Did I say that out loud?” I wondered.

With two long strides, he was standing directly in front of me with his arms crossed over his broad chest. I couldn’t help but notice how his biceps flexed at the movement.

His smile grew as he nodded. “You did. And as a man, I’m offended.”

“Well, take that up with the rest of your gender,” I griped.

“Come on, don’t be like that.”

I eyed the bearded man warily. “I’m not being like anything.”

“Do you want to order something? If you order another drink, maybe no one will notice you got stood up.”

I glowered at him and his annoyingly perfect smile. “Who said I got stood up?” I snapped.

He put his hands against the bar and leaned toward me. “You’ve been checking your phone and the door since you got here.”

“Why are you watching what I’m doing?”

“It’s my job to notice things.”

“It’s your job to pour drinks.”

He let out a chuckle and leaned a little closer. “What’s your name?”

Glaring at him, I didn’t immediately say anything. “Aaliyah,” I finally answered.

“Aaliyah,” he repeated, stretching out each syllable.

I readjusted myself on the stool and swallowed hard. A slight frown pulled on my lips. I was annoyed by how sexy it sounded as it rolled off his tongue.

I shifted my gaze for a moment, and when our eyes met again, he smirked.

“I’m Ahmad.” He took a step back. “Are you going to order another drink, or are you going to keep taking a seat away from actual customers who want to drink?”

I looked around dramatically, opening my arms wide. “What customers?”

Onyx was a new bar conveniently located across the street from my luxury apartment complex downtown. It had only been open for a week, and the word hadn’t spread about the place yet. There were maybe ten people in total in the building—including the bartender, a waitress, and someone hiding out in the back office.

“It’s still early,” he argued. “Most people don’t start coming in until after eight o’clock.”

I checked my phone. “Well, it’s eight o’clock now.”

“Just wait,” he assured me. “This place will be packed.”

As if on cue, the front door swung open, and two women walked in hand in hand.

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