“Anytime, Sweetie.” The brown-haired Vivien pulled a cube of ice out of her glass and sucked on it nervously. “Don’t be angry, but…” she started as she crunched down, “I’ve invited a few male friends to meet us.”
Shooting her a cold look, Elsa puckered her mouth and glared angrily at her. “Oh, Viv, why did you do that? I told you I’m not interested in meeting anyone. I just moved here and the last thing I want is the hassle of having to pamper some man’s ego.”
Vivien rolled her eyes in response. “Who said anything about pampering an ego? It’s just a night out. And, hell, maybe you’ll get lucky.”
Elsa sighed loudly. “I’m not interested in getting laid. And don’t you know - all men want their egos stroked. I should know. I’m good at attracting the kind of men who demand that sort of indulgence.” she mumbled. And those were precisely the kind of men she couldn’t say no to and who had trampled her heart time and time again.
She had made it perfectly clear to Viv that men were off the menu as far as she was concerned, even if it had been a long five months since her last tryst. She smiled weakly at Vivien and shrugged her shoulders in resignation. No, she didn’t need the hassle of a man, but she supposed it wouldn’t hurt to at least enjoy the evening out.
When the men arrived, she was polite as usual, but made it known she wasn’t interested in any kind of relationship, physical or otherwise. It made no difference because four shots of bourbon and two beers into the evening, the overly-touchy blonde, muscle-head whom Viv had invited was turning out to be a real douchebag. When he began putting his hands all over her, she voiced her objections repeatedly, but he was relentless. His pushiness and insufferable cologne agitated her beyond reason and when his hand ‘accidentally’ brushed up against her breast for the second time and he let out a disgusting, breathy chuckle, all her professionalism and self-restraint flew out the window.
With cheeks flushed, she hissed, “You prick,” as she raised a hand ready to slap the smug smile off his face.
At that very moment, she heard the clink of glass next to her and felt something cold and wet on the front of her skirt. She jumped off the stool and looked down to see herself drenched in sangria.
“Watch what you’re doing, you asshole!” Blonde Douchebag garbled at the man on her left who had tipped her drink over into her lap,
Elsa found it a little more than ironic that the drunken Blonde Douchebag was suddenly defending her honor when he was the asshole making unwanted advances. She grabbed a handful of napkins and dabbed her skirt in an attempt to soak up as much of the beverage as possible and motioned for Viv to get their drunk, unwanted guest under control.
“I’m deeply sorry, Elsa,” she heard from above her in an unfamiliar, husky voice that resounded with a staid calm.
When she looked up, the man’s heavy-lidded and seductive, pitch-black eyes staring down at her were so focused and penetrating, she almost lost her footing when she quickly attempted to put distance between them.
“Do I know you?” she asked, looking him over closely.
One corner of his mouth lazily curled upward. “No, but you really should get some salt on that before it stains,” he gestured toward her skirt.
She quickly glanced downward. There was no way that stain was coming out, salt or not. She frowned. It was her favorite skirt. Making her way to the restroom, she slipped out of the garment and spot cleaned it under the sink and then placed it under the hand dryer. Right after wiping the sticky residual off her thighs, she slid back into it. Her eyes rested on her face in the mirror and she took a quick inventory of herself: smile lines at the corners of her mouth from happier times, unmistakable sad, dark brown eyes hidden behind long lashes framed by smudged mascara.
Staring at her reflection and still pouting over the loss of her much loved skirt, she recalled the awkward memory of her last sexual encounter. She had hoped anonymous sex would take her mind off of Patrick, but it had only reminded of her of how lonely and in need of a man’s attention she really was. And how quickly Patrick had gotten over her and found his next muse.
Thinking about the failed relationship with her direct supervisor put her in a worse mood than she was already in. She was sure he had been ‘the one.’ Positive, in fact. Like a love-struck idiot, she had practically picked out her wedding gown and monogrammed linens. But that had been her fatal mistake – assuming he felt the same way even though he had never said as much. Their sex had been good, but she realized that’s all it had been to Patrick – just sex. How was she supposed to know she had been blind-sided by lust and that she had never been more wrong about anyone in her entire life?
Images of Patrick’s horrified look when she mentioned moving in together flashed before her eyes and his harsh, cold words of rejection seeped into her thoughts. Having to see him every day at work, hear his voice, and smell his cologne lingering in the room was all just too much. She had fled Boston in search of a new life in a smaller city, one that was far away from her numerous botched past relationships and miserable thoughts.
She touched up her make-up and dabbed a bit more scarlet lipstick onto her thick, pouted lips. She thought she hadn’t looked half bad considering her circumstances. Elsa took pride in her appearance. Not to say that looks meant everything to her, but just that she believed in putting her best foot forward in all situations. Her new position at work was a significant step up the managerial ladder and she was a professional, after all.
Emerging from the restroom, the man who had ruined her outfit was propped up against the opposing wall, looking like an aristocratic, Italian male model posing for a fashion magazine. He was all solid, lean body dressed in a tight, black leather jacket over a white cotton shirt that was open at the neckline revealing a light dusting of chest hair. His black slacks were hanging sexy and low on his hips, emphasizing the slimness of his form. There was no denying that he was exceptionally good-looking. With his rich espresso-colored hair perfectly coiffed to a fine mess, long, straight nose, and stubbled-to-perfection face – he was masculine perfection personified. Any other time Elsa would’ve fumbled over herself to get a better look at him, but something about his cool demeanor and the ferocity held within his gaze set her nerves on edge. She had been on the receiving end of that kind of look before and it had only gotten her into trouble. She couldn’t tell how old he was, but she guessed he was closer to forty than thirty, or somewhere in the middle.
All of a sudden she remembered he had used her first name only to deny knowing her. Had he been listening to her conversation with Vivien? When she warily approached him, he stood upright, his stance emphasizing the force of his thighs and slimness of his hips. The muscles around his eyes tightened as he glanced at her skirt.
“You’re welcome,” he spoke in a low, composed voice while his eyes roamed over her body before resting on her mouth.
Elsa blinked several times trying to process what his haughty remark meant before finally giving in and asking, “For what?”
The man said nothing and his eyes once again darted to the pink discoloration on her skirt. When he met her gaze, he lifted his eyebrows as if expecting a response of gratitude.
“Am I supposed to thank you for ruining my favorite skirt?” she asked in wide-eyed astonishment.
“No. For getting you out of a bad situation before you acted irrationally.”
Her lips parted in surprise. So he had been listening to her conversation. And watching her. The man’s voice carried a unique strength, but his ruthless, authoritative look was terrifying. Uncomfortable with the heat sparkling in his eyes, a flicker of apprehension coursed through her and she looked over his shoulder, suddenly wishing Vivien would show up. Hell, she’d even settle for Blonde Douchebag.