Though I’d thought that a few seconds too soon.
They absolutely could get worse.
And they did.
When Weston Lockwood sidled up and planted his ass on the bar stool next to mine.
“Well, hello, Fifi.”
***
“So how have the last twelve years been treating you?”
Weston ordered a seltzer with lemon and sat looking at me, even though I stared straight ahead, completely ignoring his presence.
“Go away, Lockwood.”
“Mine have been pretty good. Thanks for asking. After high school, I went to Harvard, though I’m sure you know that. Got an MBA from Columbia and then went to work for the family business. I’m a vice president now.”
“Gee, should I be impressed that nepotism got you a fancy title?”
He smiled. “Nah. Plenty of other things to be impressed with. You remember what I look like naked, don’t you, Feef? I’ve filled in nicely since eighteen. Whenever you’re ready, we can go back to my room, and I’ll treat you to a little looksee.”
I turned and scowled. “I think you left out something important that happened over the last twelve years. You obviously had a severe head injury that left you living in a fantasy world and unable to read emotions on other humans.”
The asshole wouldn’t stop smiling. “Those who protest the hardest are usually trying to mask their true feelings.”
I let out a groan of frustration.
The bartender walked over and set down the food I’d ordered. “Anything else I can get you?”
“Bug repellent for the cockroaches around here.”
He looked around. “Bugs? Where?”
I waved him off. “Sorry. No. No bugs. I was just being funny.”
Weston looked at the bartender sympathetically. “We’re going to work on funny. She’s not quite there yet.”
The bartender seemed a bit confused, but left anyway. When I reached for the ketchup, Weston stole a French fry from my plate.
“Don’t touch my food.” I leveled him with a glare.
“That’s an awful lot of food. You sure you want to eat all that?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. Just looks like a lot of meat for your little frame.” He grinned. “Then again, if I remember correctly, you like a lot of meat. You did twelve years ago, anyway.”
I rolled my eyes. Lifting my cheeseburger, I sank my teeth in, suddenly completely starving. The jackass next to me seemed to find my chewing riveting.
I covered my lips with my napkin and spoke with a full mouth. “Stop watching me eat.”
Not surprisingly, he didn’t. Over the next half hour, I finished off my food and guzzled another drink. Weston kept trying to make small talk, but I continued to shoot him down. Then my bladder was full, and I didn’t want to try to balance my oversized purse, laptop, and planner while I hovered over a public toilet. So I reluctantly asked the pain in the ass to keep an eye on my stuff.
“I’d love to keep an eye on your stuff.”
I rolled my eyes yet again. As I stood, I wobbled a little. Apparently the alcohol had given me more of a buzz than I thought.
“Hey, be careful there.” Weston grabbed my arm and held on tight. His hand was warm and strong and—oh my God, I’m definitely tipsy thinking this.
I tugged my elbow from his grip. “I slipped on my heel. I’m fine. Just watch my things.”
In the bathroom, I relieved myself and washed my hands. Catching a look at my reflection, I noticed I had mascara smeared under my eye. So I wiped it off and ran my fingers through my hair—out of habit, not because I gave a shit what I looked like for Weston Lockwood.
When I returned to the bar, my nemesis was at least preoccupied with something other than me for a change. I took my seat and noticed my drink had been refreshed.
“Sugar waxing, huh?” Weston said without looking over at me. “How is that different from regular waxing?”
My face wrinkled. “Huh?”
He tapped his finger at whatever he was looking at on the bar in front of him. “Is the sugar edible? Like, after you get all buffed out, you’re ready for some action? Or are there chemicals mixed in?”
I leaned in and squinted at what he was reading. My eyes widened.
“Give me that! You’re such an asshole!”
The jerk had taken my daily planner, which had been sitting on the bar to my left, and helped himself. I grabbed for the book, and Weston held up his hands in surrender.
“No wonder you’re so cranky. Your period is due in a few days. Have you ever tried Midol? Those commercials crack me up.”
I shoved my planner into my bag and waved for the bartender as I yelled, “Can I please get my check?”
The bartender came over. “You want to sign it to your room?”
I lifted the strap of my bulky bag to my shoulder and stood. “Actually, no. Sign it to this asshole’s room.” I thumbed toward Weston. “And give yourself a hundred-dollar tip from me.”