ice by telling you about me.”
Oh, go on then. If you must. I mean, it’s not like the more you talk, the more you irritate me, is it? I feel like I should stick my head out of the window to check if there’s a full moon tonight because the dogs are out in full force, preening and howling at the bitches. And boy, do I feel like a bitch.
“My name is Kristoff,” he says, obviously not picking up on my crumbling zen. “I’m a single thirty-five Taurus. I enjoy cooking and I love to snuggle, which makes me either perfect or gay. Do you wanna find out which?”
“Absolutely,” I say as I straighten, not missing the flicker of surprised satisfaction in his gaze. “My best friend is gay. I could set you up with him.”
“What?” Bewilderment ripples across his face. “I’m not . . . gay.”
“Really?” My expression twists. “How do you know? You sound pretty confused.”
“No, you misunderstand. I want you to come home with me.”
I wipe my beer sticky fingers on the front of my stupid apron as I consider the man in front of me. He’s objectively handsome; well dressed and leanly built. And he has such soulful, brown eyes . . . which just goes to show how deceptive appearances can be given the crap he’s spouting. But the icing on the cake that is Kristoff might as well be cat food flavoured as far as I’m concerned.
Don’t worry, Kris. It’s not you, it’s me.
I’ve been ruined for other men by a man out of my price range.
“What do you say?” He cocks one perfectly slim eyebrow in the kind of action that seems to say come on; I’m perfect rebound material.
Sure you are. At least until I wake up in a bed in a strange hotel suite with not even your phone number for company. Or worse still, discover you sell sex for shits and giggles.
Urgh, men!
“Come on,” he says with an amused huff. “I’m into you, handsome, rich—”
“And your Porsche is the exact colour as my eyes?”
“What?”
“Nothing.” This time, I don’t muffle my sigh. “Look, I don’t sleep with men I meet in bars. No matter what side of it I’m standing on. Not even the rich ones.” Or the ones pretending to be rich ones.
“I cook a mean breakfast.” He adds an eyebrow wiggle that is, quite frankly, baffling. Go on, love. Let me give you one tonight and I’ll chuck in bacon and eggs in the morning! “You’ll need it because I can go all night long.”
I bet he’d eat himself if he could.
“And something else that might interest you?” He glances down meaningfully. “I’m packing, if you know what I mean.”
“Hmm. Let me think about that for a minute.” I tap my bottom lip with my forefinger, appearing to contemplate this temptation when the only thing I actually contemplate is the how much I suddenly want to jump over the bar and smack him over the head with a stool. “Tell me, exactly how well-endowed are we talking about here?”
“Beautiful, I have nine rock hard inches all for you.”
And I have a little vomit in my mouth.
“Is it pretty?” I find myself purring, which is weird, because:
Only one person has ever made me feel cat-like.
Penises usually have that lump of feckless flesh attached to them called man, and,
I’ve only ever met one pretty penis in my life (see: point 1) and that was enough heartache for me.
“I’ve been told so, on occasion.”
“Well, Kris. It was Kris, wasn’t it?”
“Kristof.” He smiles as I mirror his stance, leaning my elbows against the bar as I find one of the long cocktail spoons in my hand. Just look at him. He totally thinks this is in the bag, and by this I mean me, and by bag, I mean bed.
“Well, Kris, it’s like this . . .” I tap the spoon against the bar top, then stroke it a little suggestively for good measure. His eyes avidly follow the motion, though rise to mine as I pause. “I’m afraid I find myself in the position of having to decline.”
“I like a girl who plays hard to get.”
“I’m serious.” My shoulders slump, my lips already pursing because I am seriously uninterested and seriously unimpressed.
“Just tell me how you like your eggs in the morning.”
“I like them un-flipping-fertilised!” My answer explodes from gritted teeth. “Are your ears painted on, because I would rather be poked in the eye with a syphilitic penis than go home