His Princess - Stacy Gail Page 0,13
The woman was everywhere. She’d written articles for half a dozen fashion mags and had several lucrative sponsors—everything from shoe and purse companies, to makeup and hair products, and everything in between. Her latest deal was with Triggered, an in-your-face apparel company that specialized in clothing that could be individualized online by the customer, so that no two dresses, pants or shirts were exactly alike.
He checked Triggered sales numbers before they’d thrown in with Joelle and saw only mediocre returns. After she’d started touting them six months ago, however, their sales had gone up over seven hundred percent, and were currently in the process of adding another manufacturing site. Already they were talking about going public, and after studying their domestic business model—which had an eye on international growth—he had it bookmarked to go all in on once they did.
As long as they kept Joelle under contract, they couldn’t lose.
Taking her to the bar of his youth, however, was another story.
“Ooh, check it out. Love the retro atmosphere.” Beside him, Joelle looked around the room, eyes wide like she wanted to take everything in all at once. Looking around himself, Gus tried to see the run-down old watering hole on the edge of South Deering through her eyes. Ceiling fans that whirled overhead even in the winter, yellowish lighting that made everyone look jaundiced, a bunch of round tables in no set pattern with wobbly, mismatched chairs, and a scarred-up bar that had probably gleamed back in the day, but now looked as tired as the squat, single-story cinderblock building was. “Don’t you just love those old jukeboxes? Wow, I wonder how hard it was to find one that still plays real vinyl records?”
“Not too hard. It’s been here since I was a boy scrounging in their garbage looking for recyclables. Hey, Casey,” he nodded at the man tending bar, shocked all over again at how easily he found himself sharing bits and pieces of himself with this woman. That was new. Unlike all the Francesca Osterhauses he’d dated, it was almost like he trusted Joelle to not judge him for his humble beginnings. “What’s new?”
“I’ll tell you what’s new.” Casey Gillooly looked just like his old man, the original Gillooly. With his double chin, salt-and-pepper hair thinning to an almost-textbook diagram of male pattern baldness, and massive beer gut hanging over his belt, looking at him made Gus feel like he’d stepped back in time. “You, showing up with a pretty lady. Usually you fly solo when you roll up in here.” Tossing a couple ragged cardboard coasters onto the bar, he shifted his beady eyes to Joelle. “What’ll ya have, pretty lady?”
“I don’t suppose you have an assortment of Malbec wines? I know that’s usually an Argentinian grape and not all that well-known, but there’s a stunning Malbec wine out of Tilted Windmill Vineyards in Napa Valley that I’m beyond crazy about right now. Honestly, it’s so amazing it makes your taste buds dance with joy with every sip.” When Casey simply stared at her—no surprise there—Jo slid onto a stool and gave Casey what had to be the most brilliant smile Gillooly’s had ever seen. “Or a Guinness. Either the original or extra stout, I’m not picky.”
“Uh-huh.” Casey reached for a glass and glanced at Gus with eyes that fairly bugged out at him in astonishment. “How ‘bout you, man?”
“Whatever’s on tap, as long as it’s not lite.”
“One Miller, one Guinness original.” In a few seconds he had the drinks in front of them. “By the way, your order’s total shit, dude. Your lady’s way more interesting than you.”
“So what else is new? Thanks, Case.” Tossing some bills onto the counter, Gus snagged up his drink and tilted his head toward the back. “Come on. I want to show you where I spent a good portion of my youth.”
“I wondered if there was more to Gus Bloch’s backstory than scrounging around in Gillooly’s trash for recyclables.” Clearly delighted at the prospect of going on an adventure, she slid off the stool, grabbed up her drink and coaster—shit, she actually made sure she brought the fucking coaster—and sashayed along with him to the back. Two pool tables were spotlighted under cheap-ass lights sporting logos for various beers, and she went to one of the taller tables ringing the room to set her drink down. “Well, well, well, look what we have here. Let me guess—you made a good amount of walking-around money as a pool shark?”
“It’s a fair