Letters and Lace (The Ronan's Harbor Series) Read Free Page B

hurried through the door and snaked a path to the bar.
    “I’d say sixty-forty,” Gigi said perusing the people milling about. “Not bad.”
    Gigi had the habit of assessing the ratio of women versus men at Ladies Nights. Typically, the scales at these Pier House events tipped toward an abundance of middle-aged women, men were a meager showing.
    Sarah didn’t care. She was out and dressed up, and doing her best to forget about the letter that sat folded in her purse.
    Gigi ordered her a cosmopolitan, a pink martini that Sarah didn’t normally drink. They hit her too quickly and she didn’t like the fuzzy-brained effect. She took a tiny sip, vowing to herself to let the beverage last her the evening.
    Gigi eyed the crowd over the rim of her cone-shaped glass. “I see one.”
    “For God’s sake, Gigi, we’re not at a pet store. Stop acting like you’re shopping for a puppy.”
    “Oh, what I see is no puppy. I spotted me a Rottweiler.”
    Sarah couldn’t help but laugh. She followed her friend’s gaze to the other side of the room, near Pete Bailey’s combo busily crucifying a ballad.
    The man was dark. His navy blue oxford was tucked into faded jeans. His dark hair brushed straight back over his head had a few uncooperative strands falling forward. He brought a partially-filled pilsner glass to his mouth and took a sip of dark beer.
    In the subdued light Sarah detected the chisel of his facial planes, the angles coming together in a rugged kind of broodiness that looked both appealing and dangerous. She turned to look fully at her friend. Gigi’s face was that of a child after finding a package with her name on it on Christmas morning.
    “Down girl,” Sarah warned, knowing such a comment was about as effective as an eyedropper of water on an inferno.
    “Come with me.” She walked in the man’s direction not even hesitating a beat to be sure Sarah would follow.
    They wove through the throng of women dolled up in their evening-out attire. They passed clusters huddled together in giggly conversations, reminding Sarah of a school dance. It was pathetic really, but who was she to say? She was at the dance, too. And she’d come with the Prom Queen.
    They hovered near the man, but not too close. Sarah knew the drill. Get in his direct line of vision, let him know you’re there, wait for him to approach.
    Gigi broke out her usual moves, touching a delicate hand to her hair, laughing with her head back, running a hand over a thigh to brush away non-existent lint. Sarah didn’t understand why her friend bothered. Gigi always got noticed. She exuded pheromones the same way fresh basil filled a room with its aroma. Truly, if pheromones looked like snowflakes, Gigi would be a walking blizzard.
    The band took a break, the three local men abandoning their instruments for a stint at the bar. People gathered around them offering compliments on the guys’ performances.
    The people in Ronan’s Harbor were nothing if not supportive of each other. Sarah scrutinized the faces of the people she knew, wondering, So, which one of them is trying to ruin my life? The feeling was ugly. These were her people. The idea of one of them filing a complaint against her felt like a personal slap. It stung.
    Gigi’s target approached, sauntering toward them like a gun-slinger traversing a dirt road in an old western. Sarah hated to admit it, but the guy was hot. Smoldering with a subtlety that gave Sarah a little foreign-feeling pang. This kind of twinge had been dormant so long that at first she thought the cosmo had done a job on her already. She looked down at her glass, still three-quarters full.
    He stopped when he reached their table, offering a small half-smile. He had a nice mouth and his lopsided grin only served to make it more appealing. Gigi had picked a good one this time, that was for sure.
    “I’m Gigi,” she said, her voice dropping an octave. She offered a hand, which he took into his own.
    “Benny,” he said. He