Honest.
It’s not.
Like I said, it would be a pain in the ass.
Don’t believe me.
Refusing to think about him, I set my sights on the tuxedo-clad man in the corner. Admiring the piano player here at Peacock Alley has occupied my time for at least fifteen minutes. It’s not his good looks that caught my attention, but rather the songs he has been crooning.
“Can I buy you another?”
Surprised by the closeness of the voice, I jump a little in my seat, and when my heel gets caught in the rung, I almost slide right off the bar stool.
These damn boots!
A good-looking younger man with shoulder-length blond hair catches me before I fall.
“Thank you,” I say, bracing the bar for stability.
With a smile, he sits beside me on the empty stool and unbuttons his suit jacket. “I don’t usually have that effect on women.”
I take him in, feeling a little buzzed, and full of a lot of bad judgment. “You mean you don’t usually sweep them off their bar stool with a few words?”
The sparkle of good humor remains in his eyes. “So may I buy you another?”
I look down at my glass with only a few drops left and lift it. “Sure, why not.”
He motions for the bartender, and when he arrives, Blondie looks over at me. “What will it be?”
“Whiskey, neat.”
Those brows of his shoot up. “Make it two,” he tells the bartender.
The bartender nods.
“Drowning your sorrows?” Blondie asks me.
I lean an elbow on the polished wood of the bar. “Something like that.”
“Boyfriend problems?”
I sigh. “Well, he’s not my boyfriend. I don’t like to label relationships, but yes.”
“Care to talk about it? I’m a good listener.”
I shake my head no. “Nothing to talk about. He wants other women.”
Blondie looks me up and down. “Damn shame.”
I give him a smile. At least he’s making me feel better.
The bartender sets two glasses in front of us, and Blondie picks his up and lifts it. “Here’s to moving on.”
Wrapping my hand around my glass of amber liquid, I lift it and clink his glass. “To moving on.”
But what if I don’t want to?
Blondie sets his glass down and holds out his hand. “I’m Kyle Langston.”
I take his offered hand. “Nice to meet you, Kyle. I’m Maggie May. And if you even breathe a word about the famous Rod Stewart song, I’ll shove you right off that stool.”
He gives me a quizzical look and it makes me wonder just how young he is.
“Never mind.”
Kyle smiles and leans closer. “So what’s a pretty girl like you doing in a place like this all alone?”
I practically spit out my drink. “You did not just say that!”
“Yeah, I did. Do you have a better suggestion for a line to pick up a beautiful woman?”
I give him a little snap of my tongue. “Considering I just told you why I was here, I think you need to concentrate more on the conversations you are having and less on the boobs you think you are having them with.”
Embarrassed, he bows his head. “My bad.”
Yeah, I’m not only empathetic, but I like the attention, so I don’t kick him to the curb. Don’t look at me like that. Tell me you wouldn’t feel the same in my situation. I point my finger at him. “You’re in luck because I am willing to help you out. My roommate is a screenwriter and I feel like all we do is watch movies and discuss the best lines. How about this one? ‘Now on the one hand, it’s very difficult for a man to even speak to someone who looks like you. But on the other, shouldn’t that be your problem?’”
“Hitch,” he calls out.
I snap my finger and point to him with a wink. “Bingo.”
He downs his scotch. “But I think the line is, ‘should that be your problem?’”
Following suit, I down my drink and slam the glass down. “I don’t think so, but I’m not sure.” I laugh.
Another drink and way too many movie lines later, I think I have little Kyle here more prepared to pick up women.
The piano player begins to play “Layla” by Eric Clapton and I start to move to the beat. “God, I love this song.”
Kyle puts his hand on my thigh. “I’ve never heard it, but do you want to dance?”
Slowly, tactfully, I put my hand over his and try to ease it off my leg. “Kyle, you’re a little young for me, don’t you think?”
He slides his hand back up my leg. “I’m twenty-two. How old are you?”
This time I let tactful fall by the wayside. “Too old for you.”
Although technically the three-to-four-year age difference probably wouldn’t have mattered before. Before Keen. The truth is I am not interested in him or anyone, except Keen.