“Maybe,” slipped out before I could take it back.
His grin widened a little. “Want a drink while you wait?”
This was the part of the story where the heroine had to think on her feet. What would the heroine of my story do? Definitely not call the police while she had a promissory note for a hit job hidden in her purse.
“Bloody Mary?” I asked.
He raised a brow at my beverage choice but didn’t argue. I watched the bathroom door while he poured tomato and vodka over ice and dropped a plume of celery in the glass.
“Thanks,” I said, plucking it from his hand before it hit the counter. “I’ll be right back.” I picked my way quickly back toward the dark hall to the restrooms and flung open the door, relieved to find Harris’s date leaning in front of the mirror, touching up her rouge.
I took a deep breath and prayed the woman didn’t have a concealed carry permit. Then I pretended to stumble, flinging the contents of my glass and drenching the back of her suit in tomato juice.
Her spine went rigid as the icy liquid soaked through the pale gray skirt.
“Oh, oh no! I am so, so sorry!” I set my empty glass in the sink and snatched a wad of paper towels from the dispenser.
She swatted away my clumsy attempts to wipe the mess, twisting with a look of disgust to see the damage in the mirror. “It’s all over me!”
It could be a lot worse.
She swiped at her back, unable to reach the worst of the stain behind her. “Club soda,” I said, backing toward the door. “We need lots of club soda. You stay here. Don’t move. I know exactly what to do.” I pried the door open just wide enough to sneak through.
Harris’s head snapped up as I exited the bathroom. His smile fell away when I stopped in front of his booth. My heart hammered. It was now or never.
“Harris? Harris Mickler? Is that you?”
He blanched, casting anxious glances at the tables around us. “Uh, no. I’m not—” His eyes flicked back to the bathroom door. “I’m sorry,” he said, his expression caught between confusion and annoyance. “Do I know you?”
“Harris!” I said, swatting his arm. “We met at that party … you know, that Christmas thing a few years ago.” Smooth, Finlay. Real smooth. I’d have kicked myself if I didn’t think I’d fall over doing it. “Well, get up and give me a hug, you big, dumb idiot!” I grabbed his hand, practically dragging him out of the booth and throwing my arms around him as if we’d known each other since high school. He stood stiff, hands limp at his sides as I hugged him with one arm. The other reached around him for the nearest champagne flute, but it was too far away to grasp. Harris gently pushed me back by the shoulders, mumbling that I must be mistaken. I held him tighter and leaned into him, determined to reach it.
Still too far.
“Hey!” he exclaimed as his back connected with the table. “What are you—？”
I slid my hand over his ass. He shut up, his squinty eyes widening with surprise as I gave it a squeeze. Oh, god. What was I doing?
“Right,” he said with a sudden curiosity as the fingers of my other hand closed around the champagne flute. “Of course, I remember.” Something hard began to press into my stomach, and I was pretty sure it wasn’t his belt buckle. What a creep. Quickly, I slid the flute across the table until their positions were reversed. Then I dropped down into the empty side of the booth, eager to put a barrier between us as I reached for the closest drink.
“Mind if I join you?”
Harris maneuvered himself uncomfortably into the bench and eased himself down, his eyes glued anxiously to the bathroom door behind us. “Um … I don’t know if—” I tipped the flute to my lips and drank half of it down in one swill. It wasn’t strong enough to wash away the ickiness of what I’d just done, but the shocked expression on Harris’s face took the edge off.
I dangled the glass from my fingers. “You weren’t waiting for anyone, were you?” I sat up, clasping a hand to my chest. “Oh, no! I hope it wasn’t that poor woman in the bathroom. She was on the phone arguing with someone. It must have been her husband. She was really upset. I saw her leave through the back door.”
Harris’s face fell. He scowled as he reached for his glass and drained it, staring absently in the direction of the emergency exit at the end of the restroom corridor.
Oh, crap, I thought to myself as his Adam’s apple bobbed with his final swallow. How long did these things take to work? I set my flute down. My lipstick marked a distinct red shape on the side of the glass, and my fingerprints dotted the stem. If he passed out here and a hospital did a toxicology screen, this would look very, very bad for me.