Griffin didn’t respond. He just started the engine, a ghost of a smile hovering near his lips.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CRICKET
Rendezvous was packed for a Monday, which was quite fortunate for an amateur private investigator and her reluctant beard.
Griffin held the door for me as I walked into the crowded foyer of the bar and grill. I immediately moved to the dining-room doorway to see if I saw Scott. Took me only seconds to spot his thinning crown and the green striped shirt I had bought him at T.J. Maxx. It was a designer shirt he thought I had bought at his favorite overpriced men’s shop. For some reason, I took pleasure in knowing that. He was sitting alone near a window in the back of the restaurant. I made my way to the hostess stand, Griffin trailing behind me. A harried-looking, pretty hostess looked up in expectation. “A table for two. Near the window in the back, please.”
“That will be about a thirty-minute wait,” she said, picking up four sticky menus and passing them to a waitress escorting a few older gentlemen to the dining room.
“What about the bar?” Griffin asked, leaning over my shoulder.
“Oh hey, Griff,” she said, flipping her blonde hair over her shoulder and looking at me with interest. “Um, yeah, the bar is first come, first served.”
Griffin smiled at her, a very intimate, sexy smile that made me frown. Hey, he was my date. A fake one, but this chippie didn’t know that. I nudged him and gave him “the look.” His lips turned down, but he got the message.
“Thanks, Bethany. We’ll wait at the bar until a table in that area is open.”
Bethany looked at me again. “If you want first available, I can seat you in, like, five minutes.”
“Nope, what the little lady wants, she gets,” he said, looking down at me like he would bend the knee and kiss my foot. Then like a flashbulb, an image of Griffin kissing his way up my leg popped into my thoughts, making me feel weird. Oh my God, I had to stop doing things like that. I didn’t even like the man.
“Okay, whatever. You going to the Honky Tonk on Wednesday? It’s ladies’ night,” she trilled with a really bright smile that said, I’ll do you in the bathroom if you show up.
Or that could have been my imagination.
“Nah, I got something going on that night. Have fun for me,” he said, giving her a wink. “And when you have a table, holler.”
He took my elbow and steered me toward the bar with the scattered stools. There was only one spot with two stools open. I slid onto one and hissed, “I can’t see Scott from here.”
“Relax,” he said, drawing up the other stool and lifting a finger to the bartender. “Your guy’s date hasn’t arrived, so you have time. Have a beer and chill out. You’re making me nervous, and I don’t get nervous.”
“I’m not nervous.”
He smacked his hand on the bar, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. “Yeah, I see that.”
I huffed. “Whatever. This is my first time, you know.”
“Oh, I know,” he said, turning his attention to the bartender who had arrived in front of us. “Two Great Raft Commotions and a glass for the lady.”
“I don’t drink beer,” I said, sounding exactly how I didn’t want to sound—prissy.
Griffin shrugged. “What do you want, then? I’m betting a glass of chardonnay or a pinot grigio.”
I truly did want a glass of pinot grigio, but I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. So instead I said, “Actually, I do drink beer. So that’s fine.”
Looking nervously at the opening to the foyer and into the dining room beyond, I tried to figure out how to handle this. In my mind, I would be seated very near Scott and Stephanie. I could pretend to take a picture of Griffin or maybe a selfie. Perhaps the woman I was playing would like to take selfies, maybe put those silly ear filters on her pictures. But then I remembered I was wearing a T-shirt with some god-awful band that Ruby loved on it. No filters for my persona. This Maddie Holt character would straight up post an unfiltered selfie. Maybe even flipping off the camera.
The bartender set the cold cans in front of us, placing a glass beside mine. He popped the top of each and looked at Griffin. “Start a tab?”
“Nah,” Griffin said, tossing a credit card onto the bar. “We’re waiting on a table.”
I watched my pretend date take a draw on the beer, the foam on the top sticking to his beard. He really didn’t have a beard. Just some groomed scruff that was likely supposed to make him look more dangerous. Like a clean jaw might make him less of a man. I didn’t like beards. They were scratchy, and sometimes guys got food caught in them. Who wanted to make out with a guy who had crumbs in his beard? But that foam caught on the hair above Griffin’s lip? I could lick that off. You know, if I were into Griffin.