Page 26 of How NOT to Seduce a Rockstar
We hurried to sit as well: me in the outermost chair next to Tess, him squeezed in beside the other buddy.
The stage was set.
And Tess, of course, sat at dead center of the frame.
Tess took the blond photographer’s hand as if it were an ancient manuscript full of secrets. Sheexamined it with intense concentration, tracing the lines with her fingertips like a fortune-teller in evening wear.
“Hands reveal everything about a man,” she murmured, as though pronouncing an inescapable fate. “Yours speak of torment… and inner storms.”
Then, suddenly, she let go. No—she flung it away with a theatrical gesture, as if his skin had burned her.
She stared at him with an air of offense, almost disappointment.
“You remind me of an emotional castaway.”
The blond furrowed his brows, baffled. “Huh?”
One of his friends, behind him, discreetly twirled a finger at his temple: classicshe’s nutsgesture.
Meanwhile, the third guy—the one Tess had pirouetted earlier—tried breaking the ice with me. “So, what’s your name?”
I silenced him with a wave of my hand, without even turning his way. I couldn’t afford distractions. I was witnessing something destined to enter the permanent annals of Tess Martini.
She, relentless, fixed her gaze on the blond again, eyes sharp. “You look like the kind of disaster you can’t watch… but can’t look away from either.”
Silence.
A silence so taut that even the ice cubes in the glasses seemed to stop clinking.
The blond glanced at his smartwatch. “My God… it’s late!”
His friends caught the lifeline instantly and began patting their pockets, pretending sudden urgency. “Yeah, super late!”
“What time was Bruce’s flight landing?”
“Half an hour ago, I think.”
“Crap, we gotta run.”
The blond shot to his feet, shoved the chair back under the table with fake haste, and, in one last theatrical flourish, kissed the back of Tess’s hand. “Sweethearts, I hate to leave you, but a friend’s waiting.”
And just like that, with a diplomatic press-conference smile and a trail of cologne, he evaporated. All three of them, in sync, like a special ops unit on strategic retreat.
Tess followed them with her gaze, unmoving.
“Well,” I said, looking around smugly, “at least it’s a great way to score the best tables in the house.”
Tess turned to me, amused, and burst into laughter. Not the slightest dent in her ego. If anything, she seemed… energized.
“And now?” I asked.
“I’m not finished with my human test subjects,” she replied serenely.
She rose with calculated slowness, as if stepping onstage for the next act.
At the bar, a man sat alone. Mets cap pulled low over his forehead, slightly wrinkled plaid shirt, a glass of whiskey in hand. He sipped it slowly, with the look of someone who’d had a long day, a long week, or maybe just a long life. His eyes carried Monday afternoon energy—dropped right into the middle of a trendy Thursday night.
What was he even doing in a place like this?
