Finding love in Paris

Karen

I stir my drink absentmindedly, resting my head in my hand. I'm sitting at a bar on Third Street, waiting for my date, who is now fifteen minutes late. I glance back at the door, noticing how unusually empty the busy Chicago street is for a Thursday night.

I'm getting more and more irritated. Where the heck is this guy? I knew I should have just stayed home.

I tap my phone screen to check the time again. He was now twenty minutes late. I am most definitely being stood up. The guy I was supposed to be meeting was a blind date, set up by one of my coworkers, Clara.

Clara was a self proclaimed matchmaker who unbeknownst to me, had set me up on a blind date with a guy from her gym named Paul. All I knew about Paul was he was tall, had blonde hair, and blue eyes and according to Clara, "looked really impressive in gym shorts."

I had a few forced conversations with Clara in the break room after she cornered me. I had accidentally let it slip that I was single and she had taken it upon herself to set me up on a date. The thing was, I didn't really date. Men in this city were all the same to me. Uptight, douchey assholes who throw one woman out when a newer, shinier one, comes along. So I hadn't been too pleased with Clara's brown-nosing, but also didn't want to upset her. So here I am being a testament to my own theory that men are shallow creatures.

I release a big sigh. Punching my phone screen again. I would give him another five minutes, but by then if he didn't show, it would be his loss. I wave the bartender over and order another gin and tonic. The bartender, a big burly guy, pushes the glass in front of me. I take a tentative sip, but think fuck it, and pluck the straw from the glass. I drink right from the rim, downing the burning liquid.

"I'll have what she's having." A deep, husky accented voice sounds beside me. Startled, I whip my head around to find that the barstool beside me is now occupied and it's definitely not Paul.

The guy stares straight forward, so I only get the pleasure of his side profile. A defined nose and jaw, his hair a deep shade of brown, cut shorter on the sides but longer on top. He's wearing a well tailored suit that most likely cost more than my rent.

He stirs the gin and tonic around with the straw and then like me, takes the straw out and drinks right from the rim of the glass. His throat flexes as he swallows the liquid, and I find myself mesmerized by the gesture. He must note my staring and finally meets my gaze. His eyes are gray, like a sky full of dark clouds, so full, just waiting for the bottom to fall out. I can't seem to function, only stare.

"Long day?" He asks, tearing his gaze from mine. I suddenly regain the ability to breathe and study my empty glass intently. I squeeze my eyes shut scorning myself for being so blatantly obvious with my ogling.

"I guess you could say that." I breathe. The guy looks so out of place. He looks like he should be on the cover of GQ, not in a hole in the wall bar like this.

"Waiting for someone?" He says. I don't dare look back over at him, afraid that if I do I won't have the nerve to look away.

"Uh, no." I lie, my cheeks reddening. I don't know why I feel like I should save face to him, but I feel stupid admitting that I was being stood up.

"Well in that case, let me buy you another drink." He says, lifting his finger in the air, signaling the bartender.

"No it's okay. I've had plenty." I quickly say. He ignores my refusal and orders me another gin and tonic and himself a whiskey.

"I insist. I need to hear about this bad day you've had." He says, a slight smile playing upon his features. It seems pleasant enough so I relax a fraction.

I drop his gaze and instead, fidget with my ring. What is wrong with me? I am never this nervous around guys. It's like he's playing silent mind games with the fixed gazes and confidence. I'm not used to guys being so forward. Maybe that was the difference.

The bartender slides our glasses to us and the guy slips him a twenty dollar bill.

"So, about this bad day you're having?" He says, swirling the whiskey glass around before taking a sip.

"Oh yeah, well my boss had meetings all afternoon and waited until the last minute to tell me he had a conference in Vancouver tomorrow. I had to stay late after work to schedule him a flight, hotel, rental car, the whole nine yards. So I guess I'm just a little tired and cranky." I spout, taking a big drink of my gin. He studies me intently, and I feel my cheeks growing even hotter.

"So your boss is an asshole then."

"That's a good word for him."

"So why do you work for him?" His gaze darkens a fraction when he says this. Something about his eyes, his gaze, it's so intoxicating. I am pretty good at reading people, but with him I can't determine anything. It's seriously fucking with my mind.

I roll his question around in my head. I had worked for Trey Freeman, who made up one half of Freeman and Brambly, ever since I moved from my small hometown in Texas to the city. I was Freeman's assistant, which required me to tend to all of his personal affairs. I rarely had any moments to myself at work, I was always busy scheduling appointments, arranging meetings, and booking flights.

Freeman kept me on my toes, which left very little time for a personal life. I didn't mind it though. Choosing a life of simplicity versus the life I had growing up was a no brainer.

I realize I've been staring at my glass in thought for longer than what would be deemed normal. I clear my throat, shaking my head lightly. "I don't know really...I guess for the money and stability." I say, releasing a breath. He nods like he understands my situation.

"What about you?" I ask, trying to get the spotlight off of me.

"What about me?" He says quirking a brow.

"Do you have a boss that demands all of your attention?" He gives me a hard gaze and then turns his attention back to the TV mounted above the bar.

"I used to take orders from people, but now those people are dead."

I snort. Probably very unattractive, assuming that that was this guy's version of a joke. He doesn't seem like he's joking though. Okay.

"So are you like your own boss?"

"I guess you could say that." His voice is deep and controlled, the thick accent making it seem more commanding.

"I detect an accent. Where are you from?" Mimicking his gesture by quirking my brow.

"I have a feeling you already know." I meet his suffocating gaze again and swallow hard.