Page 5 of This Is How It Started
I can’t tell if he’s joking, but I fold up the napkin and stuff it in my purse anyway. It isn’t what I was expecting. I’ll give him points for that.
“Thanks.”
“You bet.”
“So, are you like a compulsive gambler?”
He laughs that really great laugh again.
“Nope,” he says. “But a friend of mine is. He’s the one who gave me the tip.”
He attempts to flag the bartender over, but she’s at the other end of the bar, flirting with a couple of businessmen. “You want a drink? I just landed my dream job and am buying. Figure it’s good karma.”
I don’t think karma works like that, but who am I to turn down a free drink? “Sure.” I study him for the first time since we’ve met and lose my train of thought as I stare into a pair of nice brown eyes.
Actually, nice is an understatement. They’re gorgeous, the kind of brown eyes that have the power to mesmerize.
He also happens to have one of those perfectly proportioned faces. It’s square with a forehead that’s roughly the same width as his chin. His jawline—I’m a sucker for jawlines—is well defined. I once read that women subconsciously equate strong jawlines with high sperm counts and cringe a little at the objectification. Yet my mind still goes there.
He grins as if he knows exactly what I’m thinking. And for a second I can feel my cheeks heat. Then, just as quickly, my armor goes on. I still can’t figure him out. Odds are he’s either married or on the prowl for a hookup. I don’t do married men—or hookups. Though I’d be lying if I said the latter isn’t tempting. It’s been a while, and this stranger is doing something funny to my insides. I turn away, afraid he’ll read my thoughts.
The woman next to me is eating a soft pretzel that smells so good it makes my stomach rumble. As I remember, the place has good food, even if it is pretentious. Lots of elevated beer bites like truffled corn nuts, mini lamb corndogs and buffalo sliders. I consider ordering something because I’m starved but decide to wait for Campbell.
“So what’s the job?” I ask him, half hoping, half not, to catch him in a lie.
“Martin, Owens and Luckett.” He nudges his head at the door as if it’s just outside.
I shrug. “Law firm?”
“Nope, only the best architecture firm in the city.” He smiles again, and this time I notice his teeth and wonder if they’ve been capped; they’re that freakishly white. “I was coming out of their building when I saw the cop pull you over.”
“You’re an architect?” I immediately think of George Costanza’s alter ego, Art Vandelay, inSeinfeldand how he boasted about designing the new wing of the Guggenheim to impress a woman.
“I am,” he says with a cocky nod that simultaneously turns me on and off. But mostly on.
The bartender finally makes an appearance and takes our drink orders. I get a glass of Prosecco, which is probably a weird choice for a gastropub. But they serve it, so it can’t be that weird. Art Vandelay gets a beer on tap and doesn’t so much as flinch when the bartender says, “That’ll be $20.95.”
“I used to be with JBR Design,” he continues. “But their specialty is residential. My background is in commercial buildings. Restaurants, retail, that sort of thing. You ever been to Rabbits? That’s my work,” he says before I have a chance to answer. “The chef’s a dick. I once saw him reduce a contractor to tears and can only imagine how he treats his cooking staff. I bet I’ll open the paper one day and read that his sous chef hacked him to death with a meat cleaver and the cops ruled it justifiable homicide. But the dude’s got impeccable taste. He pretty much let me do whatever I wanted. And it didn’t come cheap.
“So what do you do?” He looks at me expectantly, and I’m struck by the fact that we’re probably around the same age and he’s already designed one of the premiere restaurants in San Francisco.
“I’m in real estate,” I say, leaving it vague because my biggest claim to fame is that I once was the listing agent for the governor’s best friend’s sister. A flat in a tenant-in-common building in Cole Valley that I got through my father because he did the woman’s nose.
“Oh yeah? Residential or commercial?” His eyes slowly drift over me, and I can’t tell whether he’s trying to assess the measure of my success from my clothes or if he’s checking me out.
“Residential.”
“Nice. Good market for it. You hungry?” He glances at the bartender, who’s on her way from across the bar with our drinks.
I’m tempted to say yes, but Campbell will be here any minute. “I’m waiting for someone.”
His gaze drifts up and meets my eyes. “I should’ve known you weren’t single.”
I can’t tell if he’s feeding me a line. But I don’t bother to clarify the statement. I’m still trying to figure him out. As my father likes to say, “If it seems too good to be true, it probably is.”
“I’m Rachel, by the way. Rachel Gold.” I reach into my purse and hand him my business card, telling myself it’s good networking, him being an architect and all and me being a real estate agent.
“Josh Ackermann.” He riffles through his wallet for a card and writes his number on it. “The card is only good for two more weeks, then I start my new gig. But I’m always reachable by cell.” He points to his handwriting and smiles again.
