Page 5 of Maneater
“Paying in cash doesn’t mean anything. Maybe he wanted to impress you.”
I shake my head. “Or maybe he didn’t want the charge to show up on his credit card, the statement of which goes to his house.”
“Or—”
He continues to try and argue, but I proceed to drop my most convincing pieces of evidence.
“His cuff links were engraved J+K, and while his name was Joseph, I doubt the ‘K’ was for his last name. And to top it off, he had both an indent on his ring finger and a tan line. The man is married. Trust me, I know these things.”
There’s a beat of silence before he speaks again.
“You got all that in that short amount of time?” If I’m not mistaken, there’s a hint of awe in his words. He’s impressed, and I can’t help but preen.
“You can get a lot of information from someone if you take a moment to read them.”
Carrie comes over to where we’re sitting after filling a large order.
“Hey, Rowan, what can I get you?” she asks. There’s friendlinessin her tone, meaning he’s passed the pretty strict test she gives all customers at the bar.
“A whiskey neat. Macallan.”
Typical, I think. I know the type, of course. They’re often my target. Uptight, expensive drinks, judges everyone and anyone around him.
Sounds about right.
“What about me?” he asks.
“You?”
“What do you get from me?” I stare at him, trying to see if he’s playing a game, but I think he’s being serious.
So I do what I do best: assess.
Okay, so maybe it’s what I do second best, because flirting is truly my specialty.
“No ring, no tan line, no indent, not married. You’re here at.” I check my watch and smile. “Seven thirty on a Wednesday, so you’re either here for travel or are single. You give major only child energy, though that one is harder to confirm or deny. There’s a tattoo peeking from the sleeve of your shirt, so a rebel, but not enough to fuck with your chances of working in…” I tip my chin toward where the sleeves of his button-down are rolled to his elbows and continue to take him in… “Corporate, for sure. Business, I’d guess. High-end.” Some things are just instinct, and this is mine working in real time.
“Pretty good,” he admits with a smile.
“Unfortunately, you have shit taste in liquor,” I say, tipping my chin toward where the bartender is reaching for the bottle of his far-too-expensive top-shelf whiskey.
“Not a Macallan fan?”
“Not a whiskey fan.” I smile then, genuine and wide, before shifting once more to face him. “So how close was I?” A beat passes before he smiles, and fuck, his smile is good, especially now that I can see the full force of it, how it crinkles at the corners of his eyes, how it stretches across his cheeks.
“You’ve been on dates with colleagues and business partners ofmine, so how do I know you didn’t get info from them?” I tip my head to the side and give him a pitying pout.
“Aww. It’s so cute that you think I’m asking about you while on a date with another man. I guess I can add a big ego to my list, huh?” His jaw tightens, but there’s a spark in his eyes, the slightest tip of his lips that tells me he’s enjoying this back-and-forth just as much as I am. “So does that mean I was right?”
“Pretty dead on,” he says, a bit of a laugh in the words. He’s entertained by me. It fuels me, wanting to push it further.
Carrie slides the whiskey to him, and he thanks her, sliding a black card across the bar back to her.
“Put her other drinks on here. Keep the previous payment as a tip. And a fresh glass, if she wants,” Rowan says.
Something about it is undeniably hot in a way that doesn’t usually do it for me. The smoothness of the card slide, not only insisting on paying for my next drink, with the assumption I’ll be enjoying it with him, but my previous ones as well. Not ordering me another glass, but instead offering it. I smile at him, genuinely, then at Carrie.
“Why not?” I say. “I’ll have another.” Carrie nods, then she shifts her back to Rowan and gives me a thumbs-up that makes me smile. She’s sayinghe’s a green flag, good luck, girl!in a way only women can silently communicate.
