The two men were lounging in the empty seats at the St. James Theater, chatting with the London producers.
Davis shook hands with the producers then clapped Clay on the back. “He can handle the rest. I need to go.”
His friend took off, and Clay wrapped up the final details of the contract, then left the empty theater and slid into a town car. As soon as the door was closed, he loosened his purple tie; it was his good luck-tie, and he always wore it on nights like these. He unbuttoned a few buttons of his crisp white shirt, stretched his neck from side to side, and reached for his phone. He hadn’t been to San Francisco in a while, but he found himself googling a certain bar on the way to the airport. Who knew if he’d make it to Cubic Z, but the woman who’d been proposed to before the show had told him that her sister worked there, then added, “she’s gorgeous, and the best bartender in the world.”
He shrugged to himself as the car sped to LaGuardia. He wasn’t sure if he’d have the time to stop by a bar in San Francisco during this trip. But he found himself wondering about the gorgeous bartender, and whether she might be the fiery type.
* * *
That had been a bitch of a deal. Too many attempts at nickeling and dimeing his client – a high-profile TV talk show host in the Bay Area. Pissed him off. Clay didn’t take that kind of shit and he’d made damn sure the network knew that they’d walk. That’s when the exec caved and finally started playing ball. That was the secret to negotiation. Always be the one willing to walk. In the end, Clay had landed nearly every point he’d wanted for his client. But he’d felt battered and bruised with their petty ways, so he tracked down the nearest boxing gym, worked off his frustration with a long, sweaty bout with a heavy bag, pounding and punishing until his muscles screamed, and even then a little more. After, he returned to his hotel for a hot shower.
It was damn near scalding temperature as the water beat down hard on him, and he leaned into the stream, washing off the day.
When he stepped out from the water and toweled off, he was nowhere near ready to crawl into bed and call it a night. Negotiations like that warranted a drink, and as soon as the thought of a drink touched down in his head, he remembered the name of the bar, and the name of the supposedly gorgeous bartender.
Julia.
Hmmm…
He had energy to burn, and the bar wasn’t far from his hotel here in the SoMa district. He pulled on jeans and a button-down shirt, combed his hair, brushed his teeth, and headed out into the San Francisco night. He only wished he’d thought to bring along a pair of handcuffs, his favorite accessory. They looked mighty fine with black lingerie, thigh-high stockings, and heels on the right woman.
But that was putting the cart before the horse, wasn’t it?
CHAPTER TWO
Not Again.
Honestly, how many times was the sloppy hipster going to make a play for her? He was staring at her chest tonight. Part of her couldn’t fault him. She’d been blessed in the breasts department and filled out a C-cup quite nicely, thank you very much. But still. Tact was way sexier than ogling.
“What if I ordered drinks for everyone in the bar? How about that? Would you finally give me your number then?”
“No. Because my eyes are up here,” she said, and pointed to her face.
He snapped his gaze up, caught red-handed. But he was relentless. “See? I can be trained. I’m a good boy.”
“I’m happy to serve you. But the number is under wraps and always will be,” she told him.
The dude was practically spilled across the bar, his chest draped on the sleek metal. “How about another Appletini then?”
“No problem,” she said with a private smirk. Julia loved mixed drinks – she had a bit of mad scientist in her that thrilled at discovering new combinations of flavors. But while the bartender in her enjoyed concocting a cocktail, the woman in her wished that once, just once, a guy would be a guy and order a goddamn beer. Maybe it made her shallow, but she didn’t care. She would never date a man who drank the sissy drinks she often served. She liked her men to be men. No manscapers need apply.
As she mixed the hipster’s drink – some vodka, some apple juice, a splash of apple brandy – a new customer sat down.
“What can I get for you?” She said before she even turned around.
“I’ll take whatever’s on tap.”
She froze in her spot simply because the voice was rough and gravelly, and sent a charge through her with its masculine sexiness. But, the man behind that deep and husky voice was probably a dweeb, right? That’d be her luck. She plunked the Appletini down in front of her least favorite sloppy drinker, then turned to the man who wanted the beer, and holy heavenly fiesta of the eyes.