“Another drink, sir?”
“Yes. In fact, can you just bring the bottle? I think that’ll be easier for both of us.”
“I certainly can, sir. Would you like to be informed of the price? I mean, before I go get it.”
He knew she was trying to be polite. Deep down, he understood what was going through her head. She was doing the calculations on how much he’d already drunk, in addition to the cost of the bottle. “No, I don’t need to know the price. Just bring the bottle, please.”
He caught the surprise in her eyes even as she turned to go. The server bobbed with a bounce of her blonde curls, and was gone.
He smirked and brushed a dark blond strand of his own hair behind his ear. The expensive fabric of his tailored shirt pressed against his muscular chest and arms as he reached across the table for the book that lay face up in front of him.
Reading the book alone looked out of place in such a high-end bar. Even he realized that. The book reminded him of how he’d felt as he made his own transition from plain and forgettable to something else entirely. Something he was still trying to understand. All eyes were on him, from the female patrons in the bar to the staff. He witnessed his server murmuring to her coworkers while grabbing the requested bottle of 1939 Macallan.
The sheets in his book gently ruffled; his fingers touched familiar passages. The pages were like old friends. He couldn’t help smiling as he remembered exactly how many times he’d read the book.
The lighting in the bar was dim, which would have posed a problem to anyone else but him. The words were so familiar, he could see the print on the page as clearly as if he were sitting on a park bench during a bright midday.
He heard her before he saw her. “Here you are, sir. The most expensive bottle we have. I had to convince my manager that this wasn’t a joke, but when I told him who ordered it, he practically ran to fill the request.” She placed the newly dusted bottle of whiskey onto the table. “Do you come here often?”
He put the book down, his blue eyes making contact with hers. “From time to time. Usually there’s a different waitress working.”
“Oh, I’m part of the day shift. I’m just picking up extra hours.” Her gaze fell from his, hesitating too long on his muscular torso, then finally rested on the book he’d placed back onto the table. “Spartans, huh?”
He nodded. “Spartans.”
An awkward silence followed as the attractive young woman grasped for a follow-up line, a line she’d never had to use before. Men had always felt obligated to fill the silence in an attempt to please her. “Um… can I pour the whiskey for you?”
“No, that’s fine. You can leave the bottle.”
She cleared her throat, once again at a loss for words. “If you don’t mind my asking: Who are you? I mean, the entire night staff seems to know you, and I think every woman in here has inquired about you since you sat down.” Her face reddened, even as she asked the question.
He looked at her—really looked at her. She was pretty, young, and carried herself like a woman rather than a girl. High energy and a steady smile made her not only attractive, but also approachable. He couldn’t blame her for the question. In all fairness, it was one he’d been trying to answer for the past four years. “I don’t know. I don’t know if I’ll ever know. The last few years have been a blur of temporary happiness.”
This was clearly not the answer she was expecting. “Oh, okay. Well, let me know if you need anything. My name’s Sophia.”
He nodded as she turned and left. Part of him wished he’d been nicer, but it was the truth. Alan Price opened the costly bottle of whiskey as nonchalantly as someone would open a bottle of water and poured himself a generous portion. As the glass traveled from the tabletop to his lips, he thought back to the first night he realized life would be more of a mystery than he’d ever thought possible.
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