Page 6 of This Is How It Started
He has a smile that packs a punch, and for a second I can’t breathe. I sip my Prosecco, trying to act unaffected.
“So, you planning to bet on that horse?” He points his chin at my handbag.
I’ve only gambled twice in my life, once on a family trip to Vegas when I was twelve and my father let me sneak a pull of the handle on a dollar slot machine, and again when I was at Century 21 and the office manager set up a betting pool to predict the date one of the agents would give birth. Both times I lost.
“I’ll go with you...bring you luck,” he says a little tentatively, like a puppy dog hoping for a treat.
I don’t want to commit but have to admit I’m intrigued by the man. He’s different than your average San Francisco guy. Not in tech, which is a plus. Doesn’t wear the obligatory hoodie (how I long for a man who wears actual grown-up clothes). And more than likely, judging by the way he appears to be hitting on me, not gay, which is kind of huge in this town.
He looks away from me and eyes the menu. “What’s good here? I’m starved.”
He’s left the ball in my court as far as the racetrack, which I’m still undecided about. I like that he’s not pushy.
I gaze over at his menu and do a quick perusal of the appetizers. “I’ve only been here a few times, but everything was good.”
“I’m thinking the nachos, fully loaded.” Once again, he beckons over the bartender, who’s moved on to a couple she seems to know and has been talking to for the last ten minutes.
She reluctantly leaves her conversation and takes his order.
“So where are you from, Rachel Gold?” He leans over and swipes a handful of the complimentary snack mix from one of the bowls scattered across the bar. To me, it looks like the Chex stuff my old babysitter used to make. But knowing this place, it’s probably coated in truffle oil or made with lardo.
“Right here,” I say and leave out the part that for most of my life I grew up in Pacific Heights. Call it middle-class guilt, though I have nothing to be guilty about. It’s my father’s money not mine. As my mother is fond of saying, I “don’t have a pot to piss in.” “How ’bout you?”
“Chicago. I came out when I got accepted to Cal’s master’s program and never left. I love this city.” He stares up as if he’s looking at the skyline but is just as enamored to find a trail of exposed ductwork.
“You don’t have an accent,” I say, thinking of Dan Aykroyd inThe Blues Brothers.
“Neither do you.”
“We don’t have accents here.”
“Yeah you do. Kind of a Brooklyn thing, just a little milder.”
He’s talking about the so-called Mission Brogue. According to urban legend, Irish and Jewish people from the East Coast brought their penchant for pronouncing “store” as “stawh” and “third” as “thoid” with them when they settled in the city during the Gold Rush. But in my twenty-seven years, I have never heard a native San Franciscan speak with anything close to a New York accent.
“It’s a myth,” I say. “We all speak like the Kardashians.”
The bartender arrives with the nachos, and Josh pushes the plate toward me. “Share with me, Rachel Gold.” Those amazing brown eyes meet mine, and he holds my gaze, which I feel all the way down to my toes.
Still, I’m apprehensive. I’ve never been a player when it comes to picking up guys in bars. And honestly, my parents’ recent divorce has made me gun-shy. I look away and pluck a cheese-covered chip off the plate and pop it in my mouth.
“Mm, good.” I point to the platter. “You should try one.”
He swallows a smile as if he knows he’s made inroads with those peepers of his. Then he props his elbows on the bar and rests his chin in his hands. “So, tell me about your day.”
I laugh because he makes it sound like we’re a couple. “Let’s just say my traffic ticket was the coup de grâce.”
“The coup de grâce?” He lifts a brow, and I’m not sure if he doesn’t know what the phrase means or if he’s mocking me for using it.
“That bad?” he asks.
I don’t know why, but I start telling him about the morning I had with my father’s child bride. “My dad twisted my arm to have breakfast with my stepmother.”
“I gather you don’t like her.”
“Nope.” I pop thep.“She’s only eight years older than me, and I’m the youngest of three. My father’s sixty.”
Josh grimaces. “Wow. That’s some shit right there.”
