Chapter 45

I shiver, now, at the memory, and Simon pulls out of the kiss. He must see that dark glow in my expression, because he smiles and steps back, catching my hand to pull me along in his wake as he glides toward the bedroom.

Twenty-one. I can do this.

And then we’ll see how hiscount stands.On the Job Training by Lynn Townsend

The Blisse was not just a bar, not one of those wait-in-line-and-bribe-the-doorman clubs. No sweaty, Axe-sprayed, dressed in the latest style from the thrift shop, emaciated hipster boys grinding up against drunken, satin-clad girls wearing too much hairspray. None of that, here.

“I’d tell you about my favorite bar, but you probably never heard of it,” Chandler muttered. He poured the last of his microbrew into his glass, watching the foam cling to the side with appreciation.

The door swung open. A breeze whirled into the bar, holding the promise of spring and a hint of floral perfume. Chandler turned his head.

She didn’t just walk in; she made an entrance. She stepped daintily down the steps that led into the basement pub. Her shoes were whimsical torture devices, bright red, patent leather designed like lady-bugs: black spots, black toe-box with eyes, and a yellow flower at each five-inch heel. Her legs, while not long, were shapely, with well-rounded calves clad in knee-high socks.

His beer was empty. He tapped the glass against his teeth a few times, trying to coax out the last few drops.

The bartender coughed to announce his presence. He wiped down a spot on the bar and managed to both disapprove of Chandler for guzzling beer and still maintain a professionally helpful mien.

“Sorry, what?” Chandler couldn’t quite turn; the woman, whoever she was, had stopped on the stairs, halfway down, to talk with someone who was leaving. A virtual century passed, where he could only view her from the neck down. It wasn’t exactly torture, but he wanted to see, would the face match that body? He wasn’t even certain that it mattered.

Whoever she was, she was exactly the body type he preferred; curvy and lush, with flaring hips.

The bartender grunted something; what, Chandler would never know, but he left another beer on the crisp bar-napkin. Chandler took it up without thinking, although usually two beers was his limit on weeknights.

The conversation ended with a quick hug; she pulled up one foot to keep her balance, and Chandler felt a swell of jealousy and envy for her friend. She was a titian, too brassy-bold and highlighted with blonde streaks to be natural, but it suited her, pulled up into a messy bun and secured with a pair of black-enameled chopsticks.

“Danny!” She waved cheerfully at the bartender. “Lucid, please, tonight?” It wasn’t until she opened her mouth that Chandler realized her lipstick was green and her eyeshadow was red, a combination that really should not have worked, but sort of did. Especially, he noticed, leaning closer without really being aware of doing do, given that her eye makeup resembled a pair of ladybugs.

“You look whimsical, as always,” the bartender said. Danny, apparently. It had never even occurred to Chandler that the bartender had a name. For that matter, he wasn’t sure he’d ever heard the man make a personal comment. Not one for small talk, normally. Although Chandler could easily understand the need to talk to this particular woman.

She beamed at Danny, clambering up onto the barstool with a comical lack of grace. She was quite short, maybe two inches over five feet. “It’s not too much?” She bit at her jade lip with a hint of the coquette.

“On anyone else, maybe.” Danny filled an odd-shaped cup with a pale green liquor, set a slotted spoon on top of the glass and placed a sugar cube in the bowl. The woman leaned against the bar, watching as Danny dripped water from a frosted bottle over the sugar, dissolving it. The liquor in her glass clouded.

“Very nice. When are you going to get a fountain?” She grinned and took a sip of her drink, leaving a lip-print like a grass-stain on the cup.

“Does this look like New Orleans to you?” Danny gestured around the pub. It was small, dimly lit, and eclectically decorated. Not the typical eastern seaboard bar that dotted the tourist areas—indeed, Chandler had never seen a group of tourists stumble into the Blisse by accident—there were no lighthouse paintings or old flotation rings here.

“If I say yes, will you buy a fountain?”

“Not even if you say no.”

Chandler took a deep breath and steeled himself. His gut twisted and his scalp tingled. No matter how many times he made the offer—some were accepted, and some were not—he always had to force himself into that first comment.