Which I was not.
I still loved my husband.
But that was a lie. I didn’t. The hurt was still there, but that was more about my pride and the memories we’d made together in a gold-tinged time where we had laughed, made love, and cooked breakfast together while dancing to George Michael. That’s what I felt—grief for what was. Given the chance, I would not take Scott back. Maybe not even if he hadn’t cheated on me, which shocked me. But for some reason, I felt like someone else.
And not because I was wearing a wig and Doc Martens.
But because in the last few weeks, I had changed, and I liked this new me.
“How am I going to know when Scott’s date gets here?” I asked, ignoring the glass and drinking out of the can. My mother would have died if she’d seen me sitting at a bar, looking the way I did, drinking beer out of a can.
“Give it a minute and then go to the restroom.” Griffin took another sip. I watched his strong throat as he swallowed.
“Oh, good idea.”
“You like the beer?” he asked, nodding toward the can in my hand.
“Sure.” I didn’t love beer, but I didn’t hate it. I usually only drank beer when I was already drunk or eating crawfish.
He smiled knowingly.
“What?” I asked.
“You don’t like beer. You’re drinking it only because you want to prove something to yourself. Or me.” He cupped his beer in his hands, studying the can.
“Oh yeah, Mr. Know-it-all? For your information, I do like beer.” To prove it, I took a swig, wiping the residual from my mouth with the back of my hand. Hey, there were no napkins. The beer had a slight bitter aftertaste, and I tried not to make a face, but I could tell that Griffin had noticed. “Okay, I’m going to the bathroom. Save my stool.”
“From who?”
“I don’t know. Bethany, maybe?” I flirted, sotto voce. I stood and lightly ran my fingers through the soft hair at his nape, scratching my nails against his skin. “Ladies’ night, Griff.”
I sauntered off, telling myself that I was playing a part but knowing that I had enjoyed my little femme fatale flirting. Which was stupid because it was obvious to me that Griffin Moon had been around the block a time or twenty. For heaven’s sake, he knew the pretty blonde hostess from nights at bars. The big, handsome man drew the eye of every woman under the age of ninety. Which, come to think of it, made him a bad choice as my fake date. Ruby had screwed up on that one. I should have taken the UPS guy with his potbelly and no butt. No one would have looked twice at him, bless his heart.
The restroom was located in the middle of the far wall, putting Scott to my left. No one sat with him, and for a moment, my heart leaped with relief. But then I remembered that I needed to catch him with Stephanie. I needed the photos. I scooted by a table with a few guys wearing zip-up overalls and stained ball caps. They looked like they were straight in from working a job that gave them brown necks and dirty trucks.
One said, “Hey there, sugar. We gotta extra chair.”
I looked at him like he’d lost his damned mind before I realized I wasn’t tight-assed Cricket with her Lilly Pulitzer and day planner. I was Maddie of the revealing shirt and sassy, short hair. So I said in a register two tones lower, “I got my own chair. But thanks.”
And I kept moving, watching Scott out of the corner of my eye. His attention was on his cell phone, which he was typing on. Just as I reached the restroom door, another man in tan trousers and a blue sport coat arrived. Scott rose with a smile, extending his hand and slapping the guy on the back as he pulled out the adjacent chair.
Poop balls.
No Stephanie.
This was an actual business meeting, which meant for the third, or maybe fourth, time, I had struck out. No proof. Empty hands. Stupid Cricket.
I pushed into the bathroom because to change my mind might have invited something more from the oil-field guy and his friends. The bathroom was empty, thank God. So I went to the sink and stood, looking at myself in the mirror.
Except it wasn’t me.
I touched the hair framing my face, liking the darkness. Maybe my hair would be close to this color if I stopped coloring it golden honey. It looked good against my skin and made my blue eyes stand out. Of course, that could have been the colossal lashes framing my eyes. The sparkly shadow helped with deepening the sky blue. Or maybe they looked brighter because of the tears pooling in my lower lashes.
I bit my lip and channeled my emotions somewhere besides my utter failure. Again. I now had as much confidence as a fiftysomething dude with erectile dysfunction . . . and an empty bottle of Viagra. Just dead in the water on this whole venture.