Page 9 of Lessons in Love
“Have you now?”
“I’m not such a Goody Two-shoes.” She raises her chin, trying to build some offense to the smile on my face that makes it clear I don’t believe her.
“You’re not a Gimlet girl. Why’d you order it?”
“Because I wanted to be one, someone who orders what they want and owns it, someone who owns who they are without apologies.”
“You are that woman. You just don’t know it yet.” I bend and kiss her on the neck, just because I want to keep kissing her, touching her, keep her here longer than my break allows. On the other side of the office door the music and crowd have gotten louder. I glance toward the door. The bar should be in full swing by now and I’m probably needed, but Constance makes me want to stay.
“I got stood up by a guy, but please don’t take pity on me.”
“There’s no pity when I look at you. Only beauty.”
She sighs, and touches my cheek. “Look, you’re really great, but I’ve taken enough of your time. I should let you get back.”
“He’s an asshole and you deserve better than you realize.” This time I kiss her on the lips, full on, tongues mingling. My heart beats harder and my body leans in, the warning signs red-flagging themselves—Don’t get too close.When our lips part, I whisper, “I don’t want to go back to work, but I need to.”
She smiles, her arms lax as she lets them hang around my neck. “Come on. Don’t want to get that boss mad at you.”
“Yup, I heard he’s an asshole too.”
“He’s not, but I think he likes to pretend he is.” She lifts up and kisses my cheek. “I’m going to use the restroom. I’m kind of a mess. Then I’ll see you out there?”
“I’ll see you out there.”
She lets her hand drag across my chest until she’s out of reach. She unlocks the door, and with her hand on the knob, she turns back. “Thank you, Hardy.”
I nod, not sure how to reply. Is she thanking me for getting her off? It didn’t feel shallow. “Come see me at the bar when you’re done.”
“Okay.” She walks out and shuts the door behind her.
I remain there a few seconds too long, staring at the back of the wood door. There are only two rules:
Rule number one:Don’t get too close.
Rule number two:Never fall in love.
Why do I already feel like I broke one rule and I’m about to shatter the second?
Chapter Four
Is it really so bad to want to see Constance again? It’s not a crime to actually connect with a woman on a deeper level. Is it?
I rub my chest over these mixed up emotions, hoping to break them up, and send them on their way. I have a good life. I don’t need to mess it up like some of the other guys have with marriage, kids, affairs, and divorces. We’ve seen a few bartenders come through here, each of their stories unique. I could have predicted the ones who’d end up with happy lives and as the saying goes—happy wives.
Some bartenders were smart enough to take their skills, and utilize them in the real world. Hence the happy wives. The others, who screwed up elsewhere came back begging for jobs they lost in the first place. I get it. The attention we get at The Hideaway is addicting. It strokes our egos on a nightly basis. Some are just dumb enough to believe they deserve it, that it will last outside these walls. It doesn’t.
And if I’m being honest with myself, which is iffy part of the time and what I try my best to be the other half, I don’t even remember how those two rules came to be. I’ve been inrelationships. They just weren’t good. I don’t have lingering, unresolved feelings. I was fine moving on. What I’m starting to think is that they didn’t make me feel at all. I mean if everything’s resolved before you walk away, what mark did they leave on your life? None worth remembering.
But here I stand, still staring at a door I’ve watched close plenty of times, and walked out right after just fine. Yet, looking at that door now, all I wish is that this one time it would open and she would walk right back in.
I walk around the cabinet, reminding myself of the rules and why they exist, grab a pack of wipes and clean myself up. A few shirts hang in the closet from what I picked up from the dry cleaners earlier. I grab a gray one and slip it on, and then bend down to look in a mirror on the wall and fix my hair. When I’m ready, I walk out and down the hall. I push open the door to the main part of the bar. My ears are instantly assaulted by the noise.
Women touch me and call me by my name. I’m treated like a rock star in this bar. I’m friendly, say hi, but keep moving. I lift the panel and step behind the bar. Eddie smirks. He thinks he knows what’s up, but really, he doesn’t. He doesn’t see my heart about to pound out of my chest, or the way I look toward the bathrooms anxious to see her again. He doesn’t notice that I bring down the most expensive tequila in the bar and mix up a Paloma for a woman who’s not even here. Nope, I smile and pretend I just got laid. Sure, I came, harder than I have in a long time and I wasn’t even inside her. But I was with her and that in and of itself, was worth coming over.
I pour two glasses of white wine and make a margarita before Constance makes her way back to me and finds a vacated barstool. I deliver her drink and lean in so she can hear me . . . Fine, I pretend that’s why I lean in. I just like being near her. “It’sa Paloma. I like it with salt shaken in, but I’ll leave that for you to decide.” I set the saltshaker down in front of her.
“Why did you make me a Paloma?”
