Chapter Three
For the umpteenth time, I’ve tried to persuade Vincent he doesn’t need me to stick around. I only promised to go out tonight because I haven’t seen him in ages. “And I’m tired. It’s been a long day.”
“Love, can’t you at least try and have a little fun?”
Vincent’s my best friend, but his idea of fun is vastly different from mine. A movie, a good book, a hot bath, or a long, exhausting run are what I call fun. He’s like a male version of Holly Golightly, flitting from one party or continent to the next.
“Why don’t you go talk to Jeremy? You know he’s always had a crush on you.”
“I doubt that.” Across the bar, Jeremy gives me a hopeful smile. “Please, tell me you haven’t been matchmaking.”
“Moi?” He bats his long eyelashes at me. “You wound me with such accusations.”
“I’m glad you’re home and I can’t wait to catch up, but I’m out of here in another half hour.”
“Women.” He places his hand dramatically over his heart. “Your gender has driven me to find comfort in the arms of men.”
“Don’t blame women. You’re gay. Now, go mingle and…whatever. I’ll finish my drink and go home.” I give him a quick kiss on each cheek. “Okay?”
“Fine. Sure I can’t get you a proper drink, instead of Coke on the rocks?”
“You know I’m not old enough,” I whisper. “Plus, I hate how it tastes.”
“Because it’s an acquired taste.”
“Why do you have to acquire it? Shouldn’t it be like chocolate or cherry pie or ice cream? I knew I loved those from the first bite.”
“You’re impossible,” he whines. “I hate seeing you sit here like a lump. You know you could have your pick of the room.”
“Right…maybe you should take it slow on those vodka tonics.”
“You’re a swan.” He looks over my ensemble. “You should be showing off those lovely legs of yours instead of hiding them under jeans or wearing those hideous khaki shorts.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my shorts.”
“If you were a middle-aged woman.” He waves at a friend newly arrived. “One day, I’ll dress you to the nines.”
“And my aunts will be eternally grateful to you. Until then”—I flick my hands at him—“go enjoy yourself.”
I laugh as he executes a courtly bow and leaves me to my drink. Perhaps I should have put on some mascara. But honestly, what difference does it make? A few strokes of mascara aren’t going to transform me into anything but a pale, thin girl with a headful of curly red hair.
Standing with my back to the bar, I peruse the crowd. There are more people than I expected on a weeknight. Along the far wall, I recognize a group of farm hands dressed in pressed Wrangler jeans. A table near the door is filled with trainers, each wearing polo shirts with embroidered farm logos, probably complaining about their clients’ unrealistic expectations for their expensive horses. Some businessmen have pushed two tables together and look to be celebrating something. I decide they’re lawyers or bankers in town to meet a client. Probably from D.C. or Tysons and have stopped in on their way back home. A few tables over, a group of women I don’t know are laughing and flicking their hair about trying to attract the attention of the businessmen.
One of the men is attractive in a Gordon Gekko kind of way. I don’t know how many times Vincent has made me watch the movie Wall Street. He says Gordon is his idea of a dreamboat. Mr. Gekko—my nickname for the unknown man—is cold toward the women. His friends, coworkers, whatever, are interested, and they’ve sent over a round of drinks. But Mr. Gekko doesn’t return any of their gazes. He either looks toward the bar or at the space where the dance floor would be if it were the weekend. Maybe he’s married or gay.
I pull my cell phone from my back pocket and text Vincent. Mr. Gekko sitting under the Degas racing prints.
His reply is immediate. Not Mr. Gekko’s lucky night. I’m leaving with Paulo, jockey from Brazil. Will you be OK?
Jockeys and polo players are catnip to Vincent. Sure. Have fun. Do everything I wouldn’t.
“May I buy you a drink?”
I snap my head up to see Mr. Gekko standing next to my stool. I didn’t expect him to have a British accent. Do the Brits have a Mr. Gekko of their own? Maybe James Bond. No, he’s a spy. I realize my mouth is open and I close it. “Um, I was leaving.”
“I would be ever so grateful if you’d delay your departure.”
I’m not an expert on British accents, but Mr. Gekko’s would be classified as posh. Would it hurt to have another Coke?
“Please.” He nods towards the table. “Save me from my coworkers.”
The businessmen have joined the table of women. There’s a lot of laughing and drinking, and it looks like the kind of forced merriment you see at New Year’s Eve parties, which, for me, are the stuff of nightmares.
His smile is warm. “What are you having?”
Before I let myself think too much, I say, “A Coke, lots of ice.”
His look is quizzical as he lifts his hand to attract Bernie. “Another, please, and a Coke, plenty of ice, for the lady.”
Bernie, bartender and owner, nods, makes our drinks, and places them on the bar.
“I’m Nigel.” He sets the fizzing glass of Coke next to me. “And you are?”
“Daisy.” I switch drinks and nervously twirl the straw.
“A name you don’t hear often.”
I almost blurt out in my nervousness that a daisy was tucked inside my baby blanket when my aunts found me. Instead, I take a long sip of the perfectly carbonated Coke. Sometimes bartenders get the mix wrong, but I kind of want to stay to finish this; it’s that good, much better than the first one.
“We’re here on business.” He takes a sip of his drink. “Kind of obvious.”
“I live here.” Why did I think this was a good idea?
“It’s a beautiful place.”
Awkward is the word of the moment. “Yep, Middleburg is a lovely place.”
“I live in D.C.”
My intuition was correct. “Thank you for the drink, but I need to go. I have to get up early tomorrow and…”
Nigel extends his arm to reveal a Rolex. He holds it out for me to read the time. “It’s only seven thirty.”
I abuse my lower lip between my teeth. “It’s been a long day.” I slide off my stool.
Nigel sits on the edge of my vacated seat with his long legs spread wide around me. It makes it easier for me to talk with him but harder for me to leave.
I look over at the party happening at his table. “They’re having fun.”
“You have the most charming accent.”
He’s not going to take a hint.
“I come to Middleburg quite often for business. I’d like to see you again. Perhaps take you out to dinner.”
Mr. British Gekko, Nigel, is asking me out on a date. His accent gives the words an almost mesmerizing quality, and I find myself waiting for him to say more so I can hear how he pronounces the words. Funny how both our countries speak the same language but our words sound different. I tuck a stray curl behind my ear and shake my head. “Thank you, that’s a kind offer, but it’s not possible.”
I expect him to move his legs, but he doesn’t. Instead, he leans forward.
“Surely, you aren’t married.”
I take a step back. “No.” I look for Bernie. Maybe he could walk me to my car. “I need to go.”
Nigel stands and steps into my personal space. “A boyfriend?”
I shake my head, deciding the best course of action is to stop talking and start walking.
“What a pity, for me. At least let me escort you out.” He stands and lightly cups my elbow with his hand.
I yank my arm away and stumble back. I know I’ve overreacted and feel like an idiot. I begin to sputter out an apology when a charged current runs through me, almost like when I accidentally bumped into the electric fence when I was ten. From behind, I hear a low, deep growl. Goosebumps scurry over my skin.
Nigel’s eyes bulge, fixed upon something over my shoulder. He doesn’t look at me again, or go to the table with his friends; instead, he turns around and fast-walks out the front door. Slowly, afraid of who, or what, is behind me, I turn around.
“Roy.”
His eyes, ferocious as a hellhound, continue to track Nigel through the front glass as he gets in his sedan.
“Did you growl at him?”
Finally, he looks at me. “I thought it better than breaking his nose.”
Why is he angry? “What? Why would you want to punish him?” I meant to say punch, but his frequent use of the word punish must have rubbed off on me.
“He touched you.” He steadies me with his hand on my shoulder. “I saw you flinch.”
“I just don’t like being touched.”
He regards his hand resting on my shoulder.
“You’re different,” I say without thinking. “What are you doing here?”
“Dinner with a client.”
“Shouldn’t you get back to them?” I step away from him, and his hand drops to his side.
“She’s fine. Do you want to finish your drink?”
“No.” I pull my hair back and over my shoulder, disliking the thought of him having dinner with a woman. “I think I’ve had enough fun for one night.”
“I’ll walk you out to your car.”
“It’s not necessary.” I place my palm flat against his hard stomach. “Your date is probably looking for you.”
“Not a date.” He places his hand over mine. “Come on; let me get you out of here before another calamity transpires.”
“Daisy,” Bernie calls. He’s walking around the bar. Bernie never leaves the bar. He protects it like a badger. “You okay?” His shoulders are thrown back, causing his beer belly to stick out even farther.
I’ve known Bernie my whole life. I deliver linens to him three times a week. It warms my heart he’s worried about me and willing to step up to confront Roy.
“Thanks, I’m fine. This is Roy. He’s walking me out to my car.”
“You sure?” He looks into my eyes like he’s trying to read tea leaves in a cup.
“Yep, been a long day, you know?”
That seems to placate him. “Nice to meet you, Roy.” He extends his hand.
“Likewise. This your tavern?”
The men shake hands, and my shoulders relax a few inches.
“In all its glory.” Bernie’s smile could brighten the darkest room. “Have a good night. Tell your aunts I said hello.”
“Will do,” I respond, ignoring Roy’s offered hand and fall in behind him.
It’s amazing how everyone gets out of his way. I need to take him Christmas shopping with me.
He opens the door and leans in as I walk by, his mouth inches from my ear, and whispers, “You shouldn’t be in a bar unescorted.”
I walk through the doorway into the dense, humid air. “In case you haven’t noticed, this is the twenty-first century,” I quip back over my shoulder. “Women have the right to vote and go to bars now.”
He slips in beside me as we walk to the back parking lot. “You’re too smart to say something so stupid.”
I stop in my tracks. “I had the situation under control. I didn’t need you to fly to my rescue. He was a gentleman.”
“A gentleman,” Roy repeats and looks up at the sky like he can’t believe what I said. “All men are wolves, Miss Aldridge.”
“Even you?”
“Me most of all.”
“I’m not afraid of you.” I continue walking and stop beside my car to fish my keys out of my pocket.
“Christ, you drive this? It should be in a museum or put out of its misery.”
“There’s nothing wrong with it.” I cut my eyes up at him. “I love this car. It has a lot of sentimental value.” It was Reggie’s car, Mae’s husband, who died a few years back. He left it to me in his will. “It’s a Buick, and I keep it regularly serviced. I don’t need you making fun of it.” Or me, I don’t add.
Again, he rests his hand on my shoulder, a balm to my jagged nerves. “I didn’t mean to insult you. I meant your car doesn’t have any of the latest safety measures.” He peeks inside and shakes his head. “You don’t even have proper seat belts.”
“I just drive around town.” I shift my weight from one hip to the next. “I appreciate…” I circle my hand in front of him like I’m cleaning a window. “…your concern and all, but it’s not necessary.”
“You bring something out in me.” He lightly cups my face.
His hand is large and warm, and instinctively I lean my head into his open palm.
“You look like an angel.” His breath is hot against my cheek. “I need to kiss you.”
Yes, I think I need that too, and turn my head, so our lips brush. I’ve never wanted to kiss a man, and I should be happy, but instead of enjoying the soft touch of his lips on mine, other memories of unwanted kisses escape from the dark place inside me.
He releases me and puts a hand on each of my arms to steady me, then backs up and widens his stance, smoothing his light-gray tie. “Are you safe to drive?”
I take in a lungful of air, hoping it will calm my muddled brain. “Don’t worry yourself about me.”
“Oh, but I do, Miss Aldridge. I do.”
There’s his sincere and concerned tone again. I’m not sure how it differs from his normal, bossy tone, but there is a distinct difference.
“Why?” I’m sure he dates models and heiresses and movie stars. What could he possibly see in me?
He cocks his head to the side. I think he’s weighing whether to answer my question. I’m tingling all over from our almost kiss. I want to try it again and lean forward. His eyebrow lifts and I know he knows what I’m thinking.
A laughing couple walking to a nearby car interrupts our moment.
He tilts his head back. “If I thought you’d let me, I’d follow you home and make sure you were safe inside with all the doors and windows locked.” He wets his lips. “Are you amenable?”
Would he laugh at my old farmhouse like he did my car? Or would he carry me up the stairs to my bedroom. I shake my head to dislodge the errant thoughts. He’s watching me with those piercing green eyes of his. I realize I want him. And at the same time I know I’ll never have him. I break eye contact. The laughing couple is now kissing in the car. Blinking back my thoughts, I give him my most I am woman, hear me roar, affronted look.
“I didn’t think so.” He opens my car door. “You still have my business card?”
I do, tucked inside the zipper pocket of my purse. “Yep.”
“Promise you’ll call me if you need anything.”
“Better get back to your client.” I slide behind the wheel. “You shouldn’t leave her unescorted in a bar.” And close the door.