Instead, I realize I’m subconsciously leaning toward her the same way the kombucha flirt has been leaning into me.
The unwelcome space-invading, kombucha-thieving woman stutters out an awkward response while the redhead circles behind me, trailing those butterfly-wing fingers lightly up my arm, over my shoulders, and down my other arm, setting my skin on fire under my Hawaiian shirt. “Thank you so much! You’re the best.”
I barely register that the kombucha flirt is retreating far, far down the bar.
All of my attention is on the redhead.
It’s curly.
Her hair, I mean.
It’s a mass of curly copper frizzing all over her head.
She’s so short, even in the heeled boots, that she has to boost herself into the newly vacant bar stool. And now that sparkle is fading as she gives me a pained smile. “Apologies for invading your bubble. You looked like you needed a save, and I need to do about five thousand more good deeds today. I’ll pretend to talk to you for a few more minutes and then be on my way. You can ignore me.”
“Stay.” The word falls out of my mouth while my guard goes up.
If there’s one thing marital counseling taught me and that recent business developments reinforced, it’s that I’m historically terrible at recognizing when I’m being manipulated.
So I’m studying this woman closely while her smile goes from pained to I have sunk to the most miserable depths of hell and will never get out.
“Oh, honey,” she says, rapidly shaking her head, “you do not want my stink on you.”
Yep.
I’m officially intrigued.
Still massively on guard—can’t help it—but intrigued. “You murder someone?”
She grimaces. “Only their reputation.”
“And how—”
“Get you something?” the bartender interrupts.
The redhead flashes a smile at him. “Water, please. And his drinks are on me.”
Before I can utter a word, she passes a credit card across the bar.
I have umpteen messages from my sister making my phone vibrate endlessly because I failed to contribute to or RSVP for the massive birthday bash she’s throwing for my ex-wife in Antigua next month.
My parents regularly request that I lend—and I do mean lend without repayment—them money because you owe us after the top-notch education we gave you at boarding school all of those years. You know that’s why our part of the family trust fund ran dry.
My business partner just took five years’ worth of my research and sold it to his buddy’s start-up company because you don’t need the money, Grey. Do somebody a favor for once.
For once.
For once.
Fuck that.
So someone else picking up my tab purely for the purpose of doing a good deed for someone else?
This is refreshing.
And paranoia-making.
Is she playing me? Does she know who I am?
Seems unlikely.
None of my siblings or their children were quick or smart enough to become celebrities for being rich, and the trust fund from the old Cartwright apple farm empire dried up before any of them thought to try it. We’re obscure in the world of old rich families. Plus, we’re not actually rich anymore.
Not as a family.
As for me personally, the only people who care who I am and where I made my own small fortune are in apiology or the food packaging industry. Which is exactly how I like it.
“No arguing,” the redhead says when she catches me watching her while the bartender runs her card. “I have too many more good deeds to do today.”
Kombucha forgotten. I like this mystery better.
Dangerous spot, to like the mystery of a woman. The last time, it ended with a hellacious divorce that most of my family still hasn’t forgiven me for.
“How’s a woman like you come to dabble in ruining reputations?” I ask.
She squeezes her eyes shut. “You don’t want that story.”
“Seems like something a wife would share.” Not that mine ever did. I found out what she’d been doing online after our separation.
The redhead laughs, but it’s a sad laugh.
Did I imagine the sparkle?
“I really thought that woman would demand to see our rings,” she says.
“I’m allergic to anything on my fingers, and yours is being upgraded.”
“Quick work making a cover story. But the minute you say allergic to anything on my fingers, every woman in a ten-state radius will know you’re allergic to commitment.”
“We’re in Hawaii. No state radii.”