forgotten about Dylan, who seemed to also be finishing off a drink—something dark in a glass on the rocks.
“It’s excellent wine and it’s not a waste. I fully appreciate each and every delicious, mind-numbing drop.” She backed up that statement by taking a large swallow.
“Tough day?”
Oh, so now they were going to do the small talk? “You could say that. I’m really happy for all of my friends, but...”
“Oh, God, you’re not going to get all ‘always a bridesmaid, never a bride,’ are you?”
She nearly snorted the wine. “I actually wish that was the problem. It would be a lot simpler. Unfortunately, not all sorrows needing drowning stem from a love life or lack thereof.”
Dylan’s mouth might have quirked, but he didn’t say anything. Was he waiting for an explanation? Was this actually a conversation now, making it rude for her not to provide one?
She didn’t know what or how much Dylan knew about her past with Reese, Cassie and Gina, and she really didn’t want to go into it. But she’d opened the door, and it would probably be polite to explain why she was pounding Chardonnay. Gee, was it good or bad that she had another, equally valid, reason to give? “I lost my job this morning.”
“That does suck.”
She bit back her surprise at his word choice. “I knew it was coming—budget problems, you know—but I really liked that job.” Her glass and the bottle were now empty, and she debated having another before heading out.
“I think I should buy you a drink.”
She didn’t need the charity. She could well afford to buy her own drinks, even without a job—at least as long as the Price Paper Consortium continued to turn a profit. And she didn’t really need his company, either, as it made far more sense to get hammered in private. At the same time, though, there was something pathetic about drinking alone. Dylan Brookes wouldn’t have been her first choice of drinking partners, but it did beat a total stranger, and he didn’t seem in a hurry to leave. Plus, he hadn’t been abstaining tonight, either, and had to be working on a pretty good buzz himself, making her wonder if maybe he had a few woes to drown, as well.
It would be the polite thing to do. “All right, then.”
“Another Chardonnay? Or perhaps something stronger?”
Either she was imagining things, or there was a challenge in his voice, and she was in the mood to call him on it. She waved over a server. “I’d like a shot of Patrón, two limes, with a Dos Equis back, please.” She turned to Dylan and shot him an innocent smile. “And for you?”
Dylan shot her a smile that said there was some sign of life in there. Maybe he had layers. “Same.”
As the server left, Marnie turned to Dylan. “I know—and now you know—why I’m drinking. What’s your story? Woman troubles?”
“As you said, not all sorrows needing drowning necessarily stem from a love life or lack thereof.”
Oh, she was now dying to ask if it was the love life or lack of.
“You’re not the only one who can have a bad day,” he continued. “Although since I didn’t lose my job today, my day probably wasn’t as bad as yours.”
The server returned with their drinks, and Dylan lifted his shot glass in a toast. “To crappy days and the booze that gets us through them.”
She lifted her own glass and nodded. Then Dylan licked the salt off the rim of the glass and she nearly fell off her chair in shock.
Things were looking up.
* * *
There was something very strange about watching perky blond cheerleader-looking Marnie Price throw back tequila shots like a barroom champ. Not that he could claim to know all that much about her, but Reese had always talked about her as some sweet little thing, and on the few occasions he’d been around her, Dylan hadn’t seen anything to the contrary.
He’d been proven wrong tonight. Whatever she was drinking to forget, she was well on her way there. And honestly, he was happy to join her. It was a good way to end off a bitch of a week, and he was unexpectedly having a good time. He normally limited himself to no more than two drinks over the course of a public event, preferring to keep his mind clear and situations under control, but he’d found himself matching Marnie shot for shot and beer for beer all night.
Marnie might look like one of Botticelli’s angels—all soft curves and rosy skin—but she had a wild streak under there. And while he couldn’t say he knew her all that well, on the few occasions he had been in her company, Marnie had always been perfectly polite, but a bit distant and, in general, cool toward him. That had changed.
They’d covered everything from politics to Marnie’s debutante ball, and she was both smart and funny as hell. While they had absolutely nothing in common beyond Reese, he was having a damn good time.
It was just what he needed, and he hadn’t even known it.
When Reese had pulled him aside before she’d left and asked him to keep an eye on Marnie and make sure she got into a cab okay, he’d initially wanted to say no, not wanting to babysit for the evening. But he’d relented, and before he knew it, the bartenders were making the last call.
And while he’d consumed a ridiculous amount of alcohol, he didn’t regret the choice, either.
And now Marnie was finishing up her monologue on the differences between Southern women and the rest of the world. “I’m just sayin’, you do not want to tangle with Southern women. We can eat your heart from your chest and not even burp daintily afterward.” She cut those big blue eyes at him in the most perfect flirt he’d ever seen. “And we’ll make you love it. In fact, you’ll thank us for it.”
Marnie’s accent had thickened throughout the evening, and the drawl was now so pronounced, her vowels were in the back of her throat and he could almost hear the Spanish moss hanging off her words. Maybe it was the booze, but that accent was almost hypnotic, honeyed and thick, sucking him in with each word and doing strange things to his insides. Seemed he had a hidden hot spot for Southern belles he’d never discovered until now.
“How on earth do you hide that accent every day, Miss Marnie?” he teased, mimicking her cadence.
“It’s hard, but I’ve had lots of practice. Repression skills are taught right alongside the history of the War of Northern Aggression.”
War had gained an extra syllable and, for laughs, he tried to repeat it back to her.
She frowned. “Don’t mock me. I drink and drawl. It’s a real problem.” She sighed. “And since I feel a case of full-on magnolia mouth comin’, I think that’s my cue to go home. I’m hammered.”
A little flash of disappointment cut through him. The flash sharply changed direction when Marnie licked her lips.
But that hadn’t been a flirt, he realized, as Marnie laughed. “Yep. Lips are numb. I’m not even sure they’re still attached.”
That reminded him of the real purpose he was here with
