Page 5 of Dating His Brother

“My treat. What do you say?” he answered eagerly.

I finished paying the man and walked away with my ice cream, only for him to follow me as I went. Was it possible that this guy was a creepy stalker or serial killer?

“You just up and left your booth?” I asked. “Aren’t you afraid someone will steal your things? Or that you’ll miss out on a sale?”

“Another artist is watching it for me for the rest of the day. We all look out for each other around here.”

“Sounds like you’re just asking to be stolen from,” I quipped. “And it’s a good thing you don't consider yourself to be a businessman, because this is just another example of how horrible of one you’d be.”

“You’re not hurting my feelings any,” he smirked. “But you would be if you turned down that drink. How about it?”

I studied him for a moment, thinking he was pretty good looking. There was a certain charm to him. But serial killers could be attractive. In fact, it was better for them if they were. It made it easier for them to lure in their victims and talk their way out of getting caught if they were ever suspected by the cops. Why else would he be so insistent with a woman he never met and knew nothing about? It’s not like we met in some swanky club where people went hoping to hook up. We met on the street corner!

Then it dawned on me. I knew exactly why he was so taken with me.

“You only want to paint my portrait and buy me a drink because of the whole Heartstring thing,” I accused.

“The what?” he puzzled.

“Nice try. Heartstring, I said. You don’t recognize me from the website or any of their ads?”

He shook his head, looking clueless. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. But you could tell me all about it at the bar. Come on. I’m thirsty.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. It was tempting to spend time with someone who genuinely didn’t seem to know who I was from Jada’s stupid campaign.

“Where is this bar?” I asked skeptically, ensuring he wasn’t just trying to lure me off into some dark alley away from the crowd.

“Right over there,” he pointed. Sure enough, there was a pub on the corner of a busy street up ahead.

“Okay,” I sighed. “One drink.”

He held out his elbow for me to slip my arm through. “Shall we?”

I tilted up my nose and walked ahead of him, not giving him my arm. He brushed it off and ran to catch up to me.

The Irish pub he led me into was small but cute with stained glass windows and dark wood tables, floors, and walls. It smelled like booze and peanuts and was nothing like the fancy spots my friends usually dragged me along to. I had to admit, it was refreshing to go to a new kind of place.

And everyone seemed to know my mystery man. They all smiled and waved at him as we walked by. I gathered his name was Dawson by their greetings. And the bartender delivered his drink of choice without him even having to ask.

“You must spend a lot of time here,” I noted with a tone of judgment in my voice. I always suspected that most artists were alcoholics or drug addicts.

“What’ll the lady have?” the bartender asked.

Dawson turned to me with his brow furrowed. “I never got your name.”

“Isabella. But some people call me Izzy.”

“Isabella,” he repeated in a dreamy tone before turning back to the bartender. “Izzy here will have a White Russian.”

I scrunched up my nose. “What’s that?”

“You’ve never had a White Russian?” He laughed, leading me to a booth in the corner. “Vodka, coffee liqueur, and cream over ice. It’s a perfect drink for the afternoon, especially paired with something sweet like ice cream.”

I sipped the cocktail once the bartender delivered it and was impressed with how good it was. At least that would make my impromptu drink with a stranger worth it.

“To think…I’ve been drinking vodka all these years and never had one of these.” I looked back up at Dawson. “So do you make good money selling your art on the streets?”

“Some days are better than others, but no. Not really,” he smirked.

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