Gia
True to Zara's words, she made sure I dressed up and then called me an Uber and kicked me out of my apartment. An hour later, I teetered into the exclusive bar in heels so high my ankles were staging a protest. The dress Zara had forced me into, was so tight it hugged every curve. It felt like a second skin, squeezing my ribs with every breath.
As I stepped deeper into the room, sparsely filled with elegantly dressed men and women, I tugged at the hem, half-convinced I'd split a seam if I moved wrong. The air smelled of aged whiskey, expensive cologne, and the kind of confidence I'd never mastered.
This wasn't my scene. Dive bars with sticky floors and five-dollar beers? Sure. But this place—dim golden lights, and men in suits that probably cost more than my rent? I'd never have gotten past the door without Zara's event-planning connections. She was right, this wasn't like a regular bar. There was nothing regular about this place.
My phone buzzed and I fished it out of my clutch. A text from Zara.
Zara: How's it going?
Gia: Just got here. Honestly, this feels like a bad idea.
Zara: Don't you dare leave. I nearly sold my left kidney to get you in there. Put on a sexy smile and own it.
I sighed, weaving through the sparse crowd to the bar. My heels clicked painfully against the polished floor, and I perched on a stool before my feet staged a full rebellion.
"What can I get you?" the bartender with an easy smile said to me. He wasn't bad looking and the way his eyes swept over my body told me he liked what he saw. But the idea of hooking up with him suddenly makes my stomach churn. He reminded me too much of Preston.
Yeah, there goes my plan not to think about him tonight.
"A glass of martini, please," I responded with a smile.
"Coming right up."
As he prepared my drink, I looked around the bar taking in other patrons who were either with a group of friends or their significant other. And there was me, alone. I always used to think that your life must really suck for one to go to a bar and drink alone.
How the tables have turned.
"Your drink," the bartender placed a glass of martini in front of me. I reached for it to take a sip.
"That would be fifty."
My hand paused on the stem of the glass. "You mean fifty cents?"
He looked at me like I just said something outrageous. "I mean fifty dollars." This time he was no longer smiling. "Would that be a problem?"
I gave a small shake of my head. "No." Suddenly the drink tasted like sandpaper. Why didn't Zara warn me about the cost of drinks in this place? What was I expecting from such a high-class bar? I guess I would have to nurse just this glass for the rest of the night.
The bartender gave me a skeptical look before he went on to attend to another customer, a middle-aged man. I could see him watching me from the corner of his eyes like he was expecting me to bolt without paying.
The man he was attending to, turned to me with a smile, showing off his brown and crooked set of teeth. "Hi beautiful, why are you drinking by yourself?" came his voice that grated on my skin. I guess having money doesn't necessarily mean having class and good looks.
Maybe I could entertain him for a little bit and have him pay for this ridiculously expensive drink. I looked down at his bulging tummy which would give a pregnant woman in her third trimester a run for her money. No. Definitively not! When I said to get my groove back, this wasn't what I meant.
He must have mistaken my silence for consent for he came closer baring more of his crooked teeth. "How about we go over to my table and talk?"
"How about you go home to your wife?" I almost snapped, more irritated at myself that this was the type of man I attracted. Maybe Preston was right, maybe I wasn't attractive, not good-looking enough, way too big for someone to love me.
I took a deep breath as I realized I was the verge of crying, the man had left and I didn't even notice. Taking another sip of my drink, I decided to pay and leave. I don't care how much stress Zara had gone through to get me in here, this was a mistake. I reached into my purse and handed the bartender my credit card.
As he ran it, I finished my drink in gulps, and the moment he handed me back my card, I got off the stool ready to leave.
Phone in hand, I started booking a ride as I stepped away from the bar. Two steps in, I slammed into a wall. Cold liquid splashed across my feet.
I froze, breath hitching, and looked down. Expensive-looking leather shoes, now glistened with wet streaks, a puddle spread beneath them, and the faint scent of Whisky rising from the floor. It was then I realized I had not collided with a wall but a man.
My eyes slowly trailed up, past tailored black pants to a dress shirt, a wet patch bloomed across it, the fabric clinging to a broad chest, sleeves rolled to the elbows, revealing forearms corded with muscle. My eyes moved to the hand holding a now empty glass. I did that, I bumped into him and caused his drink to spill.
My brain stalled, words tangling in my throat as I tried to find the right words.
"Oh my God, I'm so sorry," I finally blurted, my voice pitching high as I fumbled in my clutch. I yanked out a handkerchief and began dabbing at his shirt, my fingers brushing a chest like granite. Oh, his chest is hard. Heat rushed to my face at the thought. I had no business noticing how hard a stranger's chest was.
"What are you doing?" the deepest baritone I had ever heard asked, cutting through the bar's hum like a blade, causing me to look all the way up and I was faced with a set of piercing sea-blue eyes, set in a face that looked like it was carved from stone. His jaw was tight, a faint shadow of stubble tracing it.
My brain short-circuited for a second as I stared into those eyes that seemed to look deep into my soul. I opened my mouth but no words came out.
His eyes narrowed. "Miss, are you alright?" he asked again.
"I—I wasn't looking, I...I'm really sorry," I stammered, looking away from his face as I resumed patting harder.
His hand came around mine stopping me. My pulse jumped, his touch rough-edged but gentle, calluses brushing my knuckles. "Stop." His voice sounded quite commanding. He's pissed. He has every right to be. Given the texture of the fabric I was sure the shirt cost an arm and a leg, and if the drink I just had was anything to go by, I was sure the drink I just caused him to spill was expensive too.
"I'll pay for the dry-cleaning—or the shirt—or—" I bit my lip, as I realized I was rambling.
"It's okay," he said, his voice now low and soothing. Those sea-blue eyes held mine, steady, unreadable, and my tongue knotted itself tighter.
"I—I'll get you another drink," I managed, pulling my hand back, the handkerchief dangling uselessly. My fingers tingled where he'd touched them, and I cursed myself for noticing.
He seemed amused as he looked at me. "How about I buy you a drink instead?"
Looking up into those eyes again, I realized he didn't seem pissed like I had thought. Why wasn't he angry?
"No, I spilled yours, I should—" I started, shaking my head, my damp sandals squishing as I shifted.
"As compensation for spilling my drink," he cut in, his tone light but firm, leaving no room to argue, "I want you to have a drink with me." His gaze didn't waver, a quiet intensity behind it, like he'd already decided I'd say yes.
I swallowed, my throat dry despite the martini I just had. "I—I was just leaving," I said, glancing at my phone, the ride app still open.
"What's your name?" he asked, his eyes now holding mine captive.
"Gia," I managed out.
"Have one drink with me, Gia, before you leave?" He insisted. There was something about the way he spoke, that left no room for argument. And the way he spoke my name, so slowly, did something to my insides.
So I found myself nodding. "Okay. One drink."
"Good. Shall we then?" he said, stepping aside, gesturing toward the bar with the empty glass.
A small voice in my head screamed for me to turn around and walk away but then I told myself that I was only going to have one drink with him. It was the least I could do after spilling his drink. Just one drink and I would be out of here.