How to Ruin a Wedding(6)

My eyes widen, and my hand grips my hair—my real hair without the wig. Not that it matters anymore; clearly, he recognized me, and if he didn’t, the whole stranger greeting from me gave it away.

“I was concerned,” he says at my silence.

Unlike me, who needed a shower immediately after our first meeting, he’s wearing the same outfit. I’ve opted for an oversized shirt and jeans meant for a more casual environment. Something that I didn’t notice until now.

“I’m honored.” To be worried about by a beautiful stranger who doesn’t even know my name.

His dimple makes an appearance, a heavy shadow on his cheek under the ambient lighting, and I’m not sure if I kept that last part in my head. “I’m honored to have witnessed someone down a beer and three glasses of whiskey and still remain upright.” He gestures to the glass of water. “For your accomplishment, I’ve brought you a gift.” He pushes the water closer to me.

I hold a hand to my chest. “Wow, it’s exactly what I wanted.”

“I saved up all year for it,” he says so earnestly, I laugh, and some of the misery I’ve been collecting oozes out of me.

I down the water in one go, then catch the eye of the bartender. He raises his brows, both questioning if I want another one and inquiring if I am still coherent enough to keep drinking. I hold up a finger, then look to my right. “Want a drink?”

He thinks about it, then gestures two toward the bartender.

“So,” Stranger says, “what has you drinking the night away on your own?”

“So many things,” I say as the bartender drops our glasses. I collect mine, clink a cheers to Stranger’s before he even grips it, and take a sip. “My eviction, my inability to get a new real job, my dreams coming undone, and it wasn’t a major concern until recently, but for some reason, speaking to you reminds me of my failure to maintain any semblance of a romantic relationship. So, in other words, completely hitting rock bottom.”

“Oh.”

I thought about my eviction again, so I pick up his glass and down half his drink. His eyes widen so comically that it yanks a laugh from me, but even I can hear the bitter aftershock trailing behind it. I point at him. “You asked a simple question, and I just dumped all my life problems on you. Has your curiosity dwindled?”

So slight I nearly miss it, his head cocks to the side. I only catch it because a stray, dark wave of hair falls over his forehead. He drinks, and my gaze catches on how his lips meet my lipstick print on the rim. “I still want to know your name.”

My head spins like whatever holds my brain steady in my skull is starting to crumble. I blink until it dulls, but the drinks start catching up with me.

“Lucinda,” I say, because people only refer to me as Lucy. Lucinda doesn’t even feel like a real name at this point. I’m so drunk my own fingertips don’t feel properly attached to my body.

“Lucinda,” he repeats, and the name coming from him sounds sultry and delicate. “Is that your real name?”

“Maybe, maybe not.” I gesture for a refill as the bartender walks by. “Yours?”

“Anders,” he says. “You know, there are less liver-endangering ways to deal with hard times.”

“Like what? Therapy?” I scoff, as if I can afford such a thing.

“Like going for a walk, sitting out in the sun, reading a book.”

I slam my hand on the counter. “Did you just suggest exercise to make me feel better? Torture? The thing that killed John F. Kennedy?”

“I think you’re mixing up your world leaders.”

“Get out of my sight.”

His low chuckle doesn’t help my already tipsy balance. “Forgive me,” he says. “I just thought you may regret this many drinks tomorrow morning.”

“You always show this much concern over strangers?”

“Only the pretty ones who like to drink whiskey.”

It should be impossible, both from my drunken state and my all-around wallowing, but a zing of awareness shoots between my thighs.

I wouldn’t say he’s conventionally handsome, not that boy-next-door lead from a rom-com. He has the tall, dark, and handsome thing, sure, but the lines on his face are a little more complex, like every tiny scar or slight smile line comes with a story attached. Neither boy next door nor bad boy, but on the border of both, which makes me study his crooked nose and the sharp angles of his face too long to be polite.

The bartender places a dish of truffle fries and steak tips before us.

“Fuel,” Anders says, pushing the fries toward me. “I thought you might need something to settle all the whiskey.”

I immediately shove a fry in my mouth, moaning at the taste of warm Parmesan and salt. Whoever invented fries, I hope they had a long, fulfilling life. “So, you must have been watching me a while to have ordered food for me.”

He clears his throat. “I was paying for dinner when I saw you stumble to the bar.”

Stumble. Because I’ve had three—wait, make that four—whiskeys here but raided the minibar in my room before deciding to make my misery everyone else’s problem. With every sentence we exchange, I feel each sip I took in a wave of dizziness.

“It feels suspicious how nice you’re being to me,” I say; as my head grows heavy, I lean my elbow on the counter and hold my chin. “Twice now you’ve caught me in poor form, but you sit by me, drink with me, order me food. Are you trying to sleep with me?”