CHAPTER SEVEN
Paige recognized him immediately.
He was standing near the crowded bar, laughing at something the male bartender had said, and only occasionally glancing toward the entrance. Surprisingly, he looked just like his picture on Perfect Strangers. Not traditionally handsome perhaps, but notnothandsome. Medium tall, casually but nicely dressed in dark pants and a striped shirt, longish curly brown hair. Hence the moniker Samson, she supposed. Nice smile, as her mother had pointed out, although from this distance it was impossible to judge the state of his teeth.
Paige had slouched into Murphy’s Bar behind half a dozen already inebriated young men, and quickly made her way to a table in the corner, head down, hoping to have arrived before her prospective date, wanting to check him out before he spotted her. “That way, if the guy is a dud,” Heather had once told her, “you can slip out before he even knows you’re there.”
Except Paige would never do that. Unlike her cousin, who’d had no qualms about standing up online suitors when she’d been a regular and enthusiastic user of dating apps, Paige understood all too well the pain of being rejected. Didn’t everyone deserve at least a chance? Okay, so a guy was five feet six, not six feet five—it could have been a typo; people inadvertently transposed figures all the time. So what if he was closer to sixty than forty and the muscles he’d proudly displayed in his online photo had long since turned to flab? She didn’t have to marry the man. She didn’t even have to go on a second date. Maybe he’d have a great personality. Maybe he’d make her laugh. Maybe the evening wouldn’t turn out to be a complete waste of time.
Except they usually were. The men she’d met rarely lived up to even a fraction of their online potential, and the ones who did were generally only interested in one thing. Paige chuckled, wondering from what depths she’d dragged that old expression.
Not that she wasn’t interested in thesamething. It’s just that it had been a while—four months, one week, and two days, to be exact—and she needed at least the pretense that a new lover was interested in more than just a one-night stand. Although, who knows? She might feel differently a few weeks from now.
“What’ll it be?” a perky blonde in a low-cut white blouse and thigh-high black skirt asked, and Paige jumped at the sound of her voice. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Sorry,” Paige apologized in return, an automatic reflex. She seemed to be sorry for everything lately. “Gin and tonic?”
“Coming right up.”
Paige glanced back at the bar. The man calling himself Samson was now hunched over the long glass counter, his back to her. She watched him peek at his watch, and immediately did the same. Five minutes after eight. She knew what he was thinking: that he’d give her another ten minutes before messaging to see if she was on her way, then settle with the bartender if he didn’t receive a reply, and be out the door. What was she waiting for? she asked herself.Get up and go over there. Get this miserable day over with.
She was half out of her uncomfortable wooden chair when the front door opened and a man who could only be described as tall, dark, and drop-dead gorgeous walked in. God, he was good-looking. Maybe even too good-looking, she thought. Even better-looking than Mr. Right Now, although cut from the same type of cloth. The kind of man searching for his own reflection when he stared into your eyes.
He caught her gaze and smiled, quickly crossing over to where she stood. “Waiting for me?” he asked, a shy grin pulling at his lips, the intensity of his gaze sending tingles up and down her spine.
Paige was torn between conflicting impulses. One was to slap the smile right off his too-handsome face, and the other was to grab his arm and hightail it out of the bar before he realized his mistake.
Could she do either? she wondered, sensing movement beside her and turning to see the man she was supposed to be meeting approaching with a drink in his hand.
“Wildflower?” he asked, hesitantly.
“Samson?” she asked in return, feeling the other man already inching away.
“I thought it was you,” Samson said, handing Paige the glass of gin and tonic she’d ordered. “I believe this drink is for you.”
“Thank you,” Paige said. “Do you think we can dispense with the aliases?”
“With pleasure.” He extended his hand. “Sam Benjamin.”
“Paige Hamilton,” Paige said, shaking it.
“Pleased to meet you, Paige.”
“Pleased to meet you, Sam.”
“I hope I wasn’t interrupting anything. No, that’s not true,” Sam corrected immediately. “I saw you talking to that rather handsome fellow, and I thought I’d better get over here before I lost my chance.”
Paige smiled, relieved that the “rather handsome fellow” had quietly taken his leave. Men that handsome had always made her nervous. Chloe’s husband, Matt, was that handsome, and look what a bastard he was.
Sam Benjamin might not be the stuff of daydreams, but he was certainly presentable, and much more attractive up close than from a distance. His voice was deep and soothing. His smile seemed genuine. Even if his hair could benefit from a slight trim, his teeth were admirably white and straight.
“Should we sit?” he asked, signaling for the waitress as they took their seats at the small, round table. “A Molson’s Golden? Thank you.” He turned his attention back to Paige. “So, what do you do, Paige Hamilton?”
“I’m in advertising. Well, Iwas,” she qualified. “I got let go a few months ago, so I’m currently…what is it they say…?”
“Unemployed?”
“Between jobs,” she corrected, smiling. “That sounds a little more optimistic. You wouldn’t by any chance be the head of an advertising agency in need of a good strategic planning director, would you?”