Gracie seriously doubted he understood the first thing about being gentlemanly. She flagged down another waiter passing by.
“I’d like to order a drink, please.” She used her most charming tone and delighted in the red flush that swelled in Barkley’s cheeks. “A Bellini, please, with a cherry on the side.”
…
Des sat in the back office of First, clearing his head. His literal brush with Gracie had left him irritated and…horny. With a single glance, a flick of her lashes, a glimpse of a smile, she made his blood roar and his hands itch to be on her. It wasn’t healthy how much he wanted her, especially since she brought loser after loser into his bar.
Was she trying to torture him?
He stared at the unfinished staff roster. Lately he couldn’t seem to concentrate on the most basic of tasks without getting distracted by thoughts of her.
Paul walked into the office and winked at him. “Your lady friend is here. Looks like she’s on another date.”
“Don’t start,” Des warned him.
Paul held up his hands. “All I’m saying is that you might want to, you know, grow some balls and ask her out. It’s obvious you like her. What’s with the silent act?”
The last thing he needed was his younger brother berating him. The Gracie thing was… Well, it was complicated and Paul wouldn’t understand. He changed girls more frequently than he changed his underwear. He didn’t know what it was like to harbor feelings for someone in the unattainable zone.
“Besides, she’s hot. Why wouldn’t you ask her out?”
“Enough,” Des growled.
“Des?” The trainee barman poked his head into the office and thrust an order docket in Des’s direction. “I got a strange order from table seven. Where do you keep the cherries again?”
He smiled and plucked the piece of paper from the young man’s hand. “I’ll take care of this one.”
He hadn’t even finished pouring the Prosecco when Gracie appeared at the bar, her eyes narrowed. Her silken dark chocolate curls were piled on her head, but winding tendrils had escaped to softly frame her heart-shaped face. Large green stones hung from her ears and glinted in the candlelight.
“Thanks for coming to the rescue,” she said, not sounding thankful at all.
Des finished her drink and passed it to her. “I only just got your order.”
She grabbed the flute and brought it immediately to her lips, downing a third of it in one swallow. It was then that Des noticed the glimmer in her eyes.
“Have you been crying?” He grabbed a small handful of cherries and put them into a dish in front of her.
“No.” She blinked at the cherries, the smudges around her eyes revealing the truth.
“Gracie, what’s wrong?”
A tear dropped onto her cheek, her lashes glistening with those that hadn’t yet fallen. Her lips quivered but she held herself together.
“He said I wasn’t as described,” she managed to get out, her voice wobbling.
“He said what?”
“Apparently I was oversold by the friend who set us up.” She let out a little sigh. “I don’t think he expected a woman with a mind of her own.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well he ordered a bottle of wine without even asking me if I wanted a drink, let alone which drink I wanted.” She let out an indignant huff. “And when I called the waiter to order the drink I wanted, he said I was rude and classless.”
“Has he gone already?” Des looked around, his hands gripping the edge of the bar. Son of a bi—
“Yeah, he left.”
“I have a baseball bat.”
She smiled, her gaze flicking up to meet his. “Don’t go all Tony Soprano on me.”
He let out a long sigh, calming himself. “I swear to God if I ever catch him hanging around here…”
“I hope for both our sakes that doesn’t happen.” She brought the champagne flute to her lips, this time taking a more delicate sip. “Sometimes I think there’s something wrong with me.”
“There’s nothing wrong with you, Gracie. But for whatever reason, you pick losers.” He balled up his towel and threw it to the other side of the bar. He needed to get rid of this pent up energy. Keeping a distance between the two of them was becoming harder and harder.
“They don’t seem like losers when I organize the date—well, the ones that aren’t blind dates anyway.” She bit down on her lip. “They all match the things I’m looking for.”
“Ah, that must be the checklist you mentioned,” he said, rolling his eyes.
“Why do you say it like that?”
“Because finding the right person is not something you can tick off a list.”
“Why not?”
He shook his head. “Because you don’t always know what you want until it’s right there in front of you. These things cannot be quantified.”
“But I need the list. It helps me work out what to look for.” She said it as if it were the simplest thing in the world.
“Maybe if you stopped looking so hard you’d see the forest for the trees.”
“But I only need one tree,” she said, her brow crinkling. “If the forest is a metaphor for dating.”
He sighed. “You’re looking for the wrong things.”
Her affinity for perfection explained a lot, like why she kept setting herself up to meet these BMW-driving, stuffed shirt guys who would never treat her as well as she deserved. She was expecting someone’s value on paper to hold up in reality. Unfortunately, life didn’t work that way.
“Okay, tell me Mr. I-Do-My-Wooing-in-Private, what should I be looking for?” She sipped her drink, peering at him over the edge.
An inexperienced guy might’ve launched into an explanation of the right characteristics to look for in a man. But Des had been with his fair share of girls—despite the recent drought—and he recognized the challenge in a woman’s tone when he heard it. The fire in her eyes dared him to tell her what to do, dared him to give her the excuse to lash out.
“It’s none of my business,” he replied, his tone neutral and even.
“If there were good guys available don’t you think I would have found them by now?”
“Not the way you’re going about it.”
She narrowed her eyes at him.
“I’m not going to tell you what to do, Gracie.”
He tilted his head and took in the glorious sight of her. A silk top and black pencil skirt hugged her body in all the right places, hinting of pleasures beneath but revealing little.
“How come you’ve never asked me out?” Her question shocked him momentarily, and her dark brows rose, issuing a challenge. She reached for another cherry, pushing the red fruit through pillowy, rose-colored lips. “Well?”
“Maybe it’s because you keep flaunting your dating life in front of me?”
“I don’t flaunt,” she said, her pouty lips parted in indignation.
“You bring them all here.” He studied her. “Is that because you’re looking for my approval, or my protection?”
“I don’t need anything from you except the occasional extraction.”
“You might not need anything, but what do you want?”
He cursed himself the second the words left his mouth. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Bright pink spots appeared on her cheeks and spilled down into her neck. “You know, maybe you should tell me what to do.”
Des couldn’t imagine why she would avoid his question—pushing her would be asking for trouble—so he let the change of topic slide. “What do you mean?”
She tapped a finger against her chin. “My way of finding a suitable match doesn’t seem to be working, and you’re convinced I’ve got it all wrong. Plus, you’re a guy.”
“So?”
“You know where guys go, what they do, what they like.” She seemed to be warming to her idea. “Besides, you’re a bartender. Isn’t that like the male equivalent of a psychologist?”