Not once, and she’d been checking fairly frequently. Staring she could handle. She got looks every night. So why couldn’t she shake Mike Templeton? Why did she feel that same penetrating scrutiny she felt back at his office every time she walked in his line of sight? All night long, it felt like he was right behind her, staring at her soul.
Another thing. He insisted on looking good. By this point in the night, the rest of the men in the place had long shed their jackets and ties. Heck, some were close to shedding their shirts. The room smelled of damp skin and aftershave.
Mike, however, barely looked bothered. His tie remained tightly knotted, and he still wore his suit jacket. Roxy didn’t even think there were wrinkles in his shirt. If he was going to stick around, the least he could do was try to blend in with the rest of the drunken businessmen.
“Why are you still here?” she finally asked, when her rounds brought her to his table.
He looked up from the chicken scratches he’d been making on his notepad. “I’d like to think the answer’s apparent. I’m working.”
“I can see that. Why are you still working?”
She expected him to say something equally obvious such as “I’m not done yet” but he didn’t. Instead he got an unusually faraway look in his eye. “I have to.”
No, Roxy thought. She had to. A guy like Mike Templeton chose to. In the interest of good relations, she kept the difference to herself, and instead tried to decipher the notes in front of her. “Smooth out the rough edges? What does that mean?”
“Part of my overall strategy. I’m still fleshing it out.”
“You planning to share it with me?”
“Eventually.” The vague answer didn’t sit well. Too much like information being kept from her, and she’d had enough of that this month. “Why can’t I see now?”
“Because it’s not fleshed out yet.”
“Uh-huh.” Uncertain she believed him, she bounced her tray off her thigh, and tried to see if she could find further explanation hidden in his expression. “In other words, trust you.”
“Yes.” He paused. “You can do that, can’t you?”
Roxy didn’t answer. “You want another Scotch?” she asked instead.
“Should I take that as a no?”
“Should I take that as you don’t want another drink?” she countered.
“Diet cola. And when the idea is fully formed, you’ll know. You don’t share your order pad before bringing the drinks do you?”
The two analogies had absolutely nothing to do with one another as far as she could see. “I would if the customer asked. If they didn’t like being kept in the dark.”
“Fine,” he said, giving an exasperated sigh. “Here.” He angled his pad so she could read better. All she saw were a bunch of half sentences and notations she didn’t understand.
“Satisfied?” he asked when she turned the notepad around.
Yes. Along with embarrassed. “You have terrible handwriting.”
“I wasn’t planning on my notes being studied. Are you always this mistrustful?”
“Can you blame me?” she replied. “I just found out my mother lied to me for thirty years.”
“Twenty-nine,” he corrected, earning a smirk.
“Twenty-nine. Plus, I work here. This place hardly inspires trust.”
“What do you mean?”
He wanted examples? “See that table over there?” She pointed to table two where a quartet of tipsy businessmen were laughing and nuzzling with an equally tipsy pair of women. “Half those guys wear wedding bands. So does one of the women.
“You see it all the time,” she continued. “Men telling women how beautiful and special they are while the entire time keeping their left hands stuffed in a pocket so no one sees the tan line.” Or promising comfort when all they really wanted was a roll in the sack.
“Interesting point,” Mike replied. “One difference, though. I’m not one of your bar customers.”
No, she thought, looking him over. He wasn’t. “I don’t know you much better,” she pointed out.
“You will.”
Something about the way he said those two words made her stomach flutter, and made the already close atmosphere even closer. All evening long, she’d been battling a stirring awareness, and now it threatened to blossom. She didn’t like the feeling one bit.
Jackie’s innuendos popped into her head.
“How do you expect me to pay out?” she blurted. He frowned, clearly confused, but to her the change in topic made perfect sense. “We never talked, and last time I checked you guys don’t work for free. How exactly do you expect to collect payment?”
Realization crested across his face, followed quickly by his mouth drawing into a tight line. “It’s called a contingency fee,” he said tersely.
“Like those personal injury lawyers that advertise on television? The ones that say you don’t have to pay them until you win?”
“Exactly. What else did you expect?”
He already knew, and she felt her skin begin to color. What could she say? She was paranoid. Life made her that way. “I didn’t. Why else would I ask?”
“If you don’t like that plan, you can pay hourly.” He looked around the bar. “If doing so fits your budget.”
Doubtful, and he knew that, too. “Your plan is fine.”
“Good. Glad you approve.”
“Do you still want your diet soda?”
“Please.”
Shoot. She’d been hoping he’d say no, so she wouldn’t have to visit his table again. “Coming right up. I’ll drop it off before I cash out.”
“You’re done for the evening?” He straightened in his seat at the news.
Roxy nodded. The ability to clock out earlier than other bars was one of the reasons she continued working at the place. She could get home at a decent hour and be awake enough to get up with Steffi.
Reaching for his wallet, Mike pulled out a trio of bills. “This should cover my tab and tip. I’ll meet you out front.”
“For what?”
“To drive you home of course.”
Drive her home. Maybe Jackie’s comment wasn’t so far off. She fingered the bills, noting his tip was beyond generous for one drink. “What’s the catch?”
“No
