antennae saw Maggie, she bounced down the bar toward her. She smiled broadly.
“How are you tonight?” she greeted. At least she seemed pleased to see Maggie again.
“Fine.” Maggie managed a smile of her own, although she had the feeling it wasn’t quite as genuine as Stacy’s.
“Could I get a diet soda?”
“No wine tonight?”
Maggie shook her head. “Not tonight.” Somehow alcohol seemed like a bad idea. God only knew what she might say. She glanced over to the redhead—even without liquor she could think of a few things she’d like to say to her. Not that she had any right to say anything, really.
The bartender grabbed a plastic cup, spun it in the air and then used the spigot to fill it to the brim.
“There you go.”
Maggie placed a five on the bar.
“I’ll just put it on Ren’s tab.”
“No,” Maggie pushed the money toward her. She wasn’t Ren’s girl. She looked over her shoulder and saw that Ren had returned as he promised, but not to her. He and the redhead stood close together, she with her mouth near his ear, talking animatedly. Ren’s back was to her, his long hair cascading down over his broad shoulders; she couldn’t see his expression, but she could picture his flirty, curling grin.
“Why don’t you let me get that?” a male voice said from close beside her. Maggie turned to see a guy she recognized vaguely from the dance floor. He’d been dancing next to her. She’d only noticed him because he’d bumped into her.
He was nice looking with thick black hair and brown eyes. And now that they weren’t jostling on the dance floor, she noticed that he was also quite young. Maybe twenty-two.
He waved to the bartender, who with her usual radar noticed and came right over.
“I want to pay for this lady’s beverage,” he said gallantly, and Maggie noticed that not only was he young, he was also a little drunk. With a grand flourish, he materialized a—dollar bill. Then he gave Maggie a goofy look and tried again, digging around in his pocket until he found more bills.
Finally he handed the bartender a twenty.
Maggie laughed. He was like a giant, good-natured teddy bear.
“Thank you,” Maggie said, picking up her own money and sticking it back in her purse.
“Sure. What’s your name?”
Maggie told him, and he said that his was Mark.
Behind her, she heard the band tuning up.
“Well thanks, Mark,” she said, raising her cup toward him. “Nice talking to you.”
Mark raised his bottle of beer in return.
Maggie wound back through the crowd, getting closer to the stage. She was determined to talk to Ren. Maybe she was just being a masochist—chances were that she was just being a masochist.
As before, Ren didn’t seem to notice her. He focused on the crowd as a whole, with the occasional break to flirt with the redhead, who practically preened under his attention.
She should just leave, Maggie told herself as Ren moved on from one song to another. It had become clear that he didn’t intend to pay her any attention. None. This was torture.
This was goddamned torture. Ren gritted his teeth as he tried desperately to ignore Maggie swaying down on the dance floor among the sea of others. Of course, she might as well have been out there alone. She was the only one he was aware of, try as he might not to be.
Coming down from that stage and only saying hello to her before disappearing into the sound booth under the pretext of some work-related mission, that had been pure hell. All he’d wanted to do was stop and talk to her so he could hear her soft voice. He’d wanted to pull her against him so he could feel her smooth skin and soft curves.
But he’d done the right thing and dismissed her. Then he’d spent the remainder of the break talking to the redhead. And that had been another test in torture.
Still, he’d done it, certain that Maggie would leave. He knew she could be easily hurt, he’d sensed that in her.
But now he wasn’t even sure
“How are you tonight?” she greeted. At least she seemed pleased to see Maggie again.
“Fine.” Maggie managed a smile of her own, although she had the feeling it wasn’t quite as genuine as Stacy’s.
“Could I get a diet soda?”
“No wine tonight?”
Maggie shook her head. “Not tonight.” Somehow alcohol seemed like a bad idea. God only knew what she might say. She glanced over to the redhead—even without liquor she could think of a few things she’d like to say to her. Not that she had any right to say anything, really.
The bartender grabbed a plastic cup, spun it in the air and then used the spigot to fill it to the brim.
“There you go.”
Maggie placed a five on the bar.
“I’ll just put it on Ren’s tab.”
“No,” Maggie pushed the money toward her. She wasn’t Ren’s girl. She looked over her shoulder and saw that Ren had returned as he promised, but not to her. He and the redhead stood close together, she with her mouth near his ear, talking animatedly. Ren’s back was to her, his long hair cascading down over his broad shoulders; she couldn’t see his expression, but she could picture his flirty, curling grin.
“Why don’t you let me get that?” a male voice said from close beside her. Maggie turned to see a guy she recognized vaguely from the dance floor. He’d been dancing next to her. She’d only noticed him because he’d bumped into her.
He was nice looking with thick black hair and brown eyes. And now that they weren’t jostling on the dance floor, she noticed that he was also quite young. Maybe twenty-two.
He waved to the bartender, who with her usual radar noticed and came right over.
“I want to pay for this lady’s beverage,” he said gallantly, and Maggie noticed that not only was he young, he was also a little drunk. With a grand flourish, he materialized a—dollar bill. Then he gave Maggie a goofy look and tried again, digging around in his pocket until he found more bills.
Finally he handed the bartender a twenty.
Maggie laughed. He was like a giant, good-natured teddy bear.
“Thank you,” Maggie said, picking up her own money and sticking it back in her purse.
“Sure. What’s your name?”
Maggie told him, and he said that his was Mark.
Behind her, she heard the band tuning up.
“Well thanks, Mark,” she said, raising her cup toward him. “Nice talking to you.”
Mark raised his bottle of beer in return.
Maggie wound back through the crowd, getting closer to the stage. She was determined to talk to Ren. Maybe she was just being a masochist—chances were that she was just being a masochist.
As before, Ren didn’t seem to notice her. He focused on the crowd as a whole, with the occasional break to flirt with the redhead, who practically preened under his attention.
She should just leave, Maggie told herself as Ren moved on from one song to another. It had become clear that he didn’t intend to pay her any attention. None. This was torture.
This was goddamned torture. Ren gritted his teeth as he tried desperately to ignore Maggie swaying down on the dance floor among the sea of others. Of course, she might as well have been out there alone. She was the only one he was aware of, try as he might not to be.
Coming down from that stage and only saying hello to her before disappearing into the sound booth under the pretext of some work-related mission, that had been pure hell. All he’d wanted to do was stop and talk to her so he could hear her soft voice. He’d wanted to pull her against him so he could feel her smooth skin and soft curves.
But he’d done the right thing and dismissed her. Then he’d spent the remainder of the break talking to the redhead. And that had been another test in torture.
Still, he’d done it, certain that Maggie would leave. He knew she could be easily hurt, he’d sensed that in her.
But now he wasn’t even sure
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