Finding Mr. Write (Business of Love #5) - Ali Parker Page 0,13
just walked into the bar looked like she’d been out in the rain for hours. She’d made her way slowly down the bar to claim the stool at the end, over which she draped her heavy wet jacket. Her dark red hair was wet despite the jacket having a hood and it sat heavy against her back. I imagined it must have felt cold as the wetness seeped through her shirt.
My writing mind wandered.
Where had she been? Why had she spent so much time out on foot in this kind of weather? Didn’t she own an umbrella?
Every respectable New Yorker knew the value of a good umbrella.
I watched from my dark corner booth as she put in her order and slumped forward on the bar to sip on her Moscow Mule.
I liked this place. I’d been coming here for the last few years. Apparently, they made good business, but every time I was here, it was always quiet, like tonight. There was usually something to watch, too. Rowdy guys watching a sports game. Husbands bitching about their wives. Old men squinting at their phones. Middle-aged loners hiding from the responsibilities of what waited for them at home.
It was rare, however, to see a woman as young and beautiful as this newcomer. She didn’t fit the bill of the usual clientele, and I wondered why she’d picked this place of all the places on this street to stumble into for some rest and fuel.
There was a story in this woman. I could feel it.
Where had she come from? Did she travel a long way to get to New York? Was it recent? Why did she come here? For a job? A man? Was she running from something? Did she have demons in her past? Was she looking for something?
I averted my gaze when she looked slowly around the bar. I kept my eyes down on my open notebook until I saw her face forward out of my peripheral.
The bartender ducked into the kitchen and returned with a handled bowl of French onion soup. Steam wafted up from the rusty-orange-colored bowl, and when he set it down in front of the woman, she leaned over it and breathed in the steam. He asked if she needed anything. She shook her head and picked up her spoon and he brought her a cup of water.
She cut into the bread and cheese on top with her spoon. I watched as she blew on it and sealed her pink lips around the spoon and ate. She took her time. Every bite was savored. Nothing was wasted. She finished the soup, pushed the bowl away, and sat back after taking a couple sips of water. A moment passed, and another, and once her bowl was cleared away, she leaned forward, rested her forehead in her hands, and stared down at her feet.
Either that or she’d closed her eyes.
I looked around the little tavern-like bar. Nobody was paying her much attention. Too curious for my own good, I got up and brought my notebook over to the bar. She didn’t hear me coming until I’d sat down on the stool beside her.
She lifted her head from her hands and looked at me out of the corner of her eyes.
They were the same color as the bottle of mint liquor behind the bar. Her stare was inquisitive, sharp, and bold. I saw a thousand thoughts race through her mind as she considered me. Then with a slight inclination of her chin, she said, “If you’re here for my number, you can move along. I’m not in the mood for sharing, and even if I was, I’m too tired to remember my own number.”
I chuckled and set my notebook down on the bar. “I assure you that’s not what I’m here for.”
Her expression remained unchanged, but she made a soft, dissatisfied sound in the back of her throat. “I can’t decide if I’m offended or relieved.”
“Well, does it make you feel any better to know that I haven’t asked a stranger for her number in half a decade?”
Her eyebrow arched ever so slightly. “No, it doesn’t. If anything, it makes me suspicious.”
“Suspicious?” I shifted in my seat and flagged down the bartender. He nodded, acknowledging that he’d seen me as he poured drinks for the couple at the opposite end. “Well, I can’t blame you for that, I suppose. New York is a big place. This is a mediocre bar. You’re alone.”