“Long day?” a man next to me asked. He’d arrived a minute or so after me, but I’d been too preoccupied with my own internal drama to notice specifics. He was white, with buzzed hair and a muscular build, giving off military vibes. He had tattoos covering every inch of exposed skin below his face, which was normal enough here in Virginia, and a wicked-looking knife attached to his belt, which wasn’t. He looked to be a few years older than me, but he wasn’t really my type. Most of all, I wasn’t exactly in the mood for flirting.
“You could say that,” I said, twisting my glass of water in my hands.
“What do you do for a living?” he asked.
I glanced at the door wistfully, but the man didn’t take my hint. So I pursed my lips and answered, “I’m a pyrotechnic engineer.”
That was my stuffy, official job title. But if I told people I was a fireworks designer, they usually asked more questions. I didn’t want more questions.
Pyrotechnic engineer, on the other hand, sounded smart. And on the whole, most guys in bars didn’t like it when women sounded smarter than them. They dropped the conversation.
The man at the bar chuckled, his teeth gleaming in the dim light.
“I could see how that could lead to some long days,” he said. “Even the name sounds exhausting.”
“Not as exhausting as this conversation,” I retorted under my breath, which was 100 percent the truth.
This seemed to amuse the man, who leaned forward with a smile, placing his elbows on the counter. It was only after he chuckled again that I saw my comment could have been construed as flirting by some men who thought women liked to play hard to get, and I mentally kicked myself. His laugh was like oil on water, seemingly so out of place and awkward.
“Can I buy you a drink?” he asked.
If I’d wanted a man to buy me a drink, I’d have worn cute clothes and shoes that hurt my feet. What I really wanted was to go home, forget today had ever happened, and hit the restart button like I was in the movie Groundhog Day. Maybe then I could ignore my email or make my mom answer her phone so I could finally get some answers. I could confront Rob before he ever made it to my office and explain to him again how he didn’t need to scrap the existing finale to incorporate my design. I wouldn’t have to give up so easily.
I pinched the bridge of my nose and refocused my attention on the man beside me.
From the corner of my eye, I thought I saw something green between the man’s fingers. It was small and could have been a pill.
Was that a roofie?
I was being paranoid. Right?
Definitely paranoid. I couldn’t prove anything. Even if I got the attention of the bartender, there wasn’t anything he could do. Besides, weren’t roofies white? Still, I scooted back on my chair and looked around to see if anyone else had noticed.
With a start, I remembered a chemistry article I’d read online about how scientists had changed the color of the pill people got from prescriptions so it would alter the color of your drink and you’d notice if it had been spiked. But only if your drink wasn’t dark to begin with. If your drink was light, or clear, like water . . . then the person with the pill would want to get me a different drink.
My brain went fuzzy for a second, and I struggled to remember what the man had asked me. Yes, he’d definitely asked me if he could buy me a drink.
“Oh, uh, I have a boyfriend,” I answered belatedly. I looked at my phone like I was checking the time. “Actually, I’m meeting him soon, so . . .”
I didn’t really have a boyfriend, not anymore, and no, I didn’t really want to talk about it. But this man didn’t need to know all my emotional baggage.
He set his bottle down on the counter.
“Want to get out of here? My place isn’t far.” His smile had disappeared, and his expression was suddenly intent. Focused.
I cocked my head. Had he not heard the first part of my statement, or was he just that persistent? Joke was on him, because he was not that attractive. Plus, the vibes he was giving off now weren’t exactly . . . normal. More like a serial killer finding his next victim in a dive bar. Maybe I was stereotyping that this guy seemed like bad news, but I also was listening to my gut, and my gut was telling me it didn’t want to die today. Sweat wound down my spine, and I bit my lip.
“Sorry.” I shook my head, hands slipping a little on my glass. “My boyfriend probably wouldn’t like that.”
“Come on, don’t be like that.” The man stood up and leaned closer. “Just one drink.” He reached out to stroke my hand, and when I tried to pull it back, he grasped it tightly in his. I tried to yank it away, but he only gripped harder. My heartbeat pounded in my ears, blood rushing through my veins.
“She said she has a boyfriend,” a new voice said. It was male and low, with an edge to it that was unmistakably dangerous. A man I didn’t know, but who must have been nearby long enough to catch the tail end of our conversation, came to stand by my side, draping an arm over my shoulders. His leather jacket was warm, and I leaned into it, not even caring who he was or what he looked like.
“Sorry I’m late, babe,” he said, squeezing my shoulder lightly. “Looks like the vultures have been circling.”
The man at the bar who’d grasped my hand finally released it, and I wrapped my arm around my rescuer, simply so it wouldn’t shake and give me away.
My attacker eyed us both, taking in the man at my side. If it turned into a fight, it would no longer be just him against me, pulling me out of a noisy bar. Finally, he leaned back and crossed his arms.
I cleared my throat. “I want to leave,” I said, glancing up and getting my first good look at the man who’d stepped in. I almost stared and gave everything away—he was that good-looking. He was Asian American, tall, and broad shouldered, with a muscular build that spoke of years of hitting the gym. His jaw looked sharp enough to cut glass, but he had smile lines around the corners of his eyes that said he knew how to laugh when the situation wasn’t so serious.
He nodded and steered me toward the door. When I glanced back, the man from earlier was busy on his phone, having seemingly forgotten all about me. An uneasy feeling settled over me all the same.
I promised myself that after I made it back to my car, I’d call the bar and report my suspicions about the man. Just in case. Maybe I wasn’t sure, but if I could save even one girl from a horrible fate, then it’d be worth it.
The front door swung open, and cool air hit me, bringing some relief to the heat that had risen to my face and cheeks.
“Which car is yours?” my rescuer murmured low.
I pointed it out and he led me to it, resting his arm against the open frame of the car door while I settled into the driver’s seat. We both watched the front doors of the bar for a few minutes, but no one followed us. My heartbeat began to slow.
“You okay?” The man ducked his head a little so he could look into my eyes.
I took in a shuddering breath. “I think so.” I wiped the palms of my hands on my pants. “Thank you for saving me back there. I’m Andee.” My breath finally returned to normal, and I felt my body relax.
“Adam Chan. My friends call me Chan.” He smiled, and I didn’t think it was possible for him to get any more attractive, but the evidence was right there in front of me. I was nothing if not a woman of science, and I couldn’t deny the cold, hard facts. I drummed my fingers against the wheel. “Nice to meet you, Chan. And I don’t actually have a boyfriend.” For some reason it was vitally important that he know that fact. I blushed, then looked down at my feet. The floor of my car needed a good vacuuming, and I wondered whether he noticed.
He pushed off my door and took a step back. I thought he was about to leave, and my chest tightened with disappointment. But he simply leaned against the car parked beside mine, the picture of casual ease.
Inwardly, I wondered at my reaction. Was it some kind of savior complex? I was interested in him because he had rescued me. That had to be the scientific explanation. Because I couldn’t see how else I’d been having such a horrible day and he’d managed to make me forget it with just a smile. That sort of thing didn’t make logical sense any other way.
He crossed his arms, his muscles straining the limits of his jacket. Inwardly, I fanned myself. Okay, so maybe it was a hormonal response then.
“I’m glad to hear it.” His voice was like liquid honey. “Can I see your phone?”
I unlocked it and handed it over. If I did it with a touch too much gusto, he didn’t comment. He simply texted himself from my phone, his own buzzing in his other hand a second later. I reached out to take mine back, but he held it to his chest with a grin.
“I’m not done yet.” He returned his attention to my phone, laughing at my Dynamite comes in small packages phone case, then he resumed whatever it was he’d been doing on my screen.
When he returned it, I saw he’d shared our contact cards with each other so we had the other’s photos and names attached to the most recent text.
His picture was unfairly handsome. I planned to stare at it all night.
The text he’d had “me” send to him read:
I think you’re cute.
A second later my phone dinged with a text from him.
I know.
I raised my eyebrows.
“I’m getting some serious Han Solo vibes from your text,” I said dryly. “And how nice of you to put words in my mouth.”
He shrugged and put his hands into his pockets, his grin showing the smile lines around his eyes.
“I had to say it for you, otherwise it might not happen.” He nudged the runner of my car with his foot. “And I really wanted to hear you say it.”
My heart fluttered.
“Ah,” I said, my voice a little breathy. “But you see, I didn’t say it. I wrote it.”
He cocked his head. His hair covered his ears and curled a little at the nape of his neck in a way that was begging for me to reach out and run my fingers through it. I resisted. Barely.
“So, you’re admitting you wrote it,” he said.
This made me laugh out loud. Smooth, Adam Chan, smooth.
With my fragile emotional state, I knew I had to get out of here before I did any irreversible damage. Like inviting Chan back to my place or telling him I wanted to have his babies.
“Thanks for turning my day around, Chan,” I said, pushing the button to start my car. “And for saving me back there. I really should be heading home.”
He inclined his head ever so slightly. “Nice to meet you, Andee. Be safe.”
He leaned forward to shut my door for me, then moved back to the sidewalk, giving a small wave as he walked toward his own car, his other hand typing on his phone. My own phone dinged on my lap.
For the record, you’re more than cute.
