Page 17 of Wild Abandon

When I look down, I see a tall stout below me.

“I ordered her a martini.” His tone is slightly condescending.

“I was told you’d changed your order.” She points her thumb over her shoulder, toward the bar.

I lean back to look around her, and that’s when I see you-know-who standing behind the bar, wiping down the inside of a glass like it’s the filthiest piece of glassware on the planet.

I look up at Laurie and nod in thanks.

When she leaves, Gavin points to my drink. “You didn’t change your drink.”

“It’s fine.” I give Gavin my attention and take a sip.

“Well, there goes her tip,” he says with a sneer. Then, he continues to talk about escrows and rates.

I’m sure many girls find this stuff fascinating, but I’m having a hard time keeping up. For starters, he’s kind of boring. And if I offer my two cents, I’m afraid I’ll get my head bitten off again.

I can’t help but continue to look through my peripheral at the man behind the bar. He is mixing drinks for a group of women sitting at the corner of the bar. When he turns his back to them, they start to whisper and giggle. One of them—a blonde—lightly pushes the other—a brunette—as if in a dare. I watch as the brunette takes a pen out of her purse and scribbles something on a white cocktail napkin. When the bartender returns with their drinks, she slides the napkin his way with a wink.

Without missing a beat, he slides the napkin back to her and walks away.

The women all have their mouths open in surprise. I place my hand over mine to see that it, too, is open.

“I know, right? Surprises me as well. But that’s what you get when you transfer funds.”

I stare back at Gavin, realizing I have absolutely no idea what he’s been gabbing about for the last five minutes. I take a long sip of my beer, pounding about half of it. When I place the glass on the table, he is looking at me, waiting for a response.

“Assets,” I blurt out. “You were talking about assets.”

“Yes, I was.” He tentatively looks at me. “Do you have many assets?”

My brows crease in. “Is this a trick question?”

“You are a beautiful woman. In your twenties—”

“Thirties. I’m thirty,” I interject. I take another hefty gulp of my beer.

“Thirty? I think I knew that. You look younger. You’re a depreciating asset.”

And insert awkward moment where I choke on my beer, making it come up and out of my mouth, spraying him in the perfectly pressed linen.

“Excuse me,” I say. I wipe my chin in a rather unladylike way, but I don’t particularly care.

“Not you per se, but women in their thirties who are looking for a mate,” he states matter-of-factly as he dabs his shirt with a paper napkin.

I lean my forehead in and tilt my chin down, my eyes squinting. “Come again?”

Gavin takes a sip of his drink through the tiny red straw and then explains, “Many women are looking for a man with the main criterion being wealth. Does he have a job? How much money does he make? I’m assuming, on MatchDateLove, you chose the option for a guy who makes a hundred fifty grand or more. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have been paired with me.” He flashes a grin that I do not reciprocate. He continues, “Men are appreciating assets. The longer I work, the more money I’ll make. Women, on the other hand, traditionally, offer two things—youth and beauty. If that is all she is bringing to the table—which, let’s face it, are pretty much the only things most women have to offer—then she is a depreciating asset, as both her youth and beauty will fade. So, do you have any assets?”

If the look on my face matches the way my hands are squeezing into tiny fists—as I try to tame the feelings from the greatest insult any man has ever given to womankind—then it looks pretty steaming mad.

“Excuse me, Doctor. You have an emergency call.”

I look over to my side, and green eyes are staring down at me.

Me.

The bartender is standing next to me. And he’s referring to me as Doctor.