Barbara Wallace – Her Convenient Christmas Date (страница 2)
Her cocktail, the sympathetic ear that it was, didn’t disagree.
Too bad Ginger and Courtney weren’t as sympathetic. The two catty little trolls from marketing enjoyed a good laugh about her while powdering their noses. So good, in fact, they didn’t realize Susan was in the stall listening to every word.
“Is it any wonder?” one of them had said. “She’s got a perpetual stick up her bum. I don’t know why Maria invited her to the wedding in the first place.”
“I should fire them both for insubordination,” Susan muttered. The cocktail offered itself up in mute solidarity. Lifting the glass, she polished off the contents in one swallow.
“You’re drinking those pretty quickly. Sure you don’t want to slow down?” the bartender asked when she signaled for another.
“Didn’t realize there was a speed limit.” She tapped the rim of her empty glass with her index finger. “Keep ’em coming. And, if you’re worried about me toddling off and driving, don’t. I used a car service.” Because that was what women without dates did. They car serviced.
“Aren’t you afraid they’ll miss you upstairs?”
Susan snorted. Did he mean the wedding to which she’d received an obligatory invitation just because her office was next to the bride’s? The one for which she had stuffed herself into shapeware and a vintage dress with the hopes it would make her Kardashianesque rear end look its best? Doubtful.
“Just make the drink,” she told him.
“All right. But don’t say I didn’t warn you,” the man replied.
Warning taken. Whatever the warning was.
She didn’t know why she’d bothered attending this wedding in the first place. If Maria Borromeo hadn’t been one of the few people who was moderately friendly toward her, Susan would have canceled when her brother Linus backed out of being her date. No one would have cared then any more than they would care if she spent the entire reception sucking back gin cocktails in the bar.
She knew her reputation.
The bartender returned with another red cocktail with an extra cherry this time. Susan forgave him for his earlier question. He was a good guy, Mr. Bartender. She liked how his red flannel shirt and neat white beard matched the Christmas decor.
“What do you call this thing anyway?” she asked him when he set the drink down. The cocktail list had been full of cute holiday-themed names that she hadn’t bothered to read, zeroing in on the first one that listed gin instead.
“A Christmas Wish,” he replied. “Guaranteed to make your wishes come true.”
Susan barked out a laugh. “You mean if I drink enough of these I’ll meet Prince Charming?”
“Is that what you want?”
“Hardly.” Clearly he wasn’t as good a listener as her cocktail friend. Cinderella Complexes were for the Gingers and Courtneys of the world. She was rich and successful in her own right, and her half brothers weren’t wicked. “I’m not waiting for some man to rush in and rescue me from my miserable existence.”
Although every once in a while…
She stared deep into the contents of the glass where tiny bubbles rose from the bottom. Every once in a while she wished there was someone who really understood her. Her brothers…they loved her, but great as they were, they didn’t really “get” her. They didn’t understand what it was like to be the perpetual square peg in a round hole, always pretending she fit.
How lovely it would be to share her life with someone who saw the truth. With whom she could fit without having to pretend. Who thought her beautiful and special, warts and all.
She was getting maudlin. And the room was spinning. Maybe the bartender was right and she’d had enough. Why else would she be wishing for things that weren’t ever going to happen?
“Hey, mate, do me a favor and get me a glass of soda water, will you?”
A tall, perfectly carved physical specimen of a man approached the bar, his face dripping wet. From the red stain on his shirt collar, Susan guessed he’d been the recipient of a Christmas Wish square in the face.
“Word of advice,” he said to the bartender, his words coated in a Yorkshire accent. “Before you agree to be in a wedding, make sure you haven’t hooked up with anyone on the guest list.”
“Ran into a bitter ex-girlfriend, did you?”
“Two. And they compared notes.” He grabbed a stack of cocktail napkins and began wiping the liquid from his face.
“Must have been
He looked in her direction for the first time. “You’re not going to lob your drink at me too, are you?”
“Why would I do that?”
“I dunno. Female solidarity or something. You’re here for Hank and Maria’s wedding, right? For all I know, they’re your friends too.”
“That would require me to have friends.” Had she said that out loud?
He arched his brow in a mixture of half surprise, half curiosity. Oh, well, too late to take the comment back now. Besides, it was the truth. She didn’t have friends. She had family, she had colleagues and she had acquaintances, but friends? That would involve allowing people closer than arm’s length, an impossible task when you were a square peg. It was hard enough trying to pretend your edges didn’t matter.
“Sounds like I’m not the only one who got burned tonight. Weddings aren’t the fun people make them out to be, are they? Unless you’re the bride and groom, that is, and even then… Thanks, mate.”
The bartender had returned with the soda water along with a white cloth napkin. “No problem. I don’t suppose I can get an autograph when you finish? I’m a huge fan. That stop you made against Germany a few years ago? I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Thanks. Definitely a finer moment than this one.”
Ah. Susan recognized him now. This was the infamous Lewis Matolo. Maria mentioned her fiancé knew the former footballer. She’d been in a downright tizzy over his attendance at the wedding. Matolo, or “Champagne Lewis” as the tabloids called him, came with a reputation. Then again, if your nickname involved alcohol, that was probably a given. He’d gotten the moniker after they snapped his picture leaving a London nightclub, shirtless, with a woman under each arm and an open bottle of Cristal in each hand. From what Susan had read, it wasn’t an unusual occurrence.
She watched as he dipped a corner into the glass and began dabbing at a red spot on the front of his shirt. Sadly, he didn’t succeed in doing anything more than turning the spot into a damp pink stain.
“You’re going to need detergent,” Susan told him. “Otherwise, all you’re doing is making it worse.”
He looked up through his long lashes. “Are you sure?”
“I own a soap company. Trust me.” Scented soaps and moisturizers hardly made her an expert. More like she tended to dribble food down her front. But being a soap mogul sounded better.
“You own a… Oh, you’re Maria’s boss. Hank mentioned you.”
Oh, good. That made two of them whose reputations preceded them. “Susan Collier, at your service,” she said, saluting him with her glass.
He nodded, apparently assuming it wasn’t necessary to offer a name in return. “So what’s got you holed up avoiding the good times in the ballroom, Susan Collier? Shouldn’t you be upstairs dancing with your date?”
“I didn’t come with a date.”
“Sorry.”
Not him too. Why was everyone suddenly sorry for her dating status all of a sudden? “For your information, I could get a date if I wanted one. I chose not to. A woman is not defined by her dating record.”
She tried to punctuate her statement with a wave of her arm only to come dangerously close to needing her own damp cloth. To make amends for her clumsiness, she took a healthy sip. These drinks were delicious.
“Again, okay. I only meant sorry for presuming. Didn’t mean to touch a nerve.” Hands up in appeasement, he backed a few inches away.
From his place a few feet down the bar, the bartender chuckled. “Maybe you should quit while you’re ahead, mate.”
“No kidding. Tonight’s definitely not my night,” he said as he strained to look down at his shirt. “You’re right. Made it worse, didn’t I?”
“Told you,” Susan replied. “It’s the grenadine. Stuff’s impossible to get out. Tastes good though.”
“I’ll take your word for it. Damn. Now I’m going to smell like a fruit bowl for the rest of the night.”
“I hate to ask, but what did you do to earn a cocktail to the face in the first place?”
A better question would have been what didn’t he do? Lewis tossed the napkin on the bar. He’d been drowning in the karma from a decade of bad decisions for the past nine months. “Nothing,” he lied. “One minute we were talking, the next I had a maraschino cherry in my hair.”
“Just like that?”
“Yeah, just like that.”
She knew he was lying. It was evident from the look she shot him over the rim of her glass.