Total pages in book: 29
Estimated words: 27313 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 137(@200wpm)___ 109(@250wpm)___ 91(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27313 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 137(@200wpm)___ 109(@250wpm)___ 91(@300wpm)
I drag a hand down my face, then step inside before I make more of a fool of myself. The bar’s busier than it was last night, and for a brief second, hope makes me feel buoyant. But a quick scan of the boisterous crowd reveals no sign of golden blonde locks or glossy lips.
Most of the crowd is businessmen and women shedding their suits and pencil skirts for the weekend in an attempt to pretend they have more to their lives than work. Hell, I know because I’m one of them.
Maybe she just hasn’t arrived yet. It’s early still, and just because she’s not here right now doesn’t mean she won’t come at all. Regardless of my shitty internal pep talk, the bad mood that’s been clouding me all day follows me as I stalk towards the bar.
“Two days in a row?” the bartender asks as I snag the last stool at the bartop.
It’s the same guy who was working yesterday, but I can’t remember his name. My brain has been cleared of any information that does not pertain to the woman I need to track down.
I grunt in response to the bartender’s question, not having the capacity for small talk.
“Hard week at work?” he tries again, and I’m about to tell him I don’t want to talk when I realize he’s already pouring me a double scotch on the rocks. My irritation relents a little as he slides the glass towards me.
“Something like that.” I run a hand through my hair distractedly.
The guy shoots me a conspiratorial look, drumming his forefinger against the countertop. “Take it you didn’t get to blow off the stress with that pretty little blonde from last night? Hard luck, man. Looked like she was into you.”
I hide the way my lip curls at his words by taking a swig of the drink I don’t even want. Pretty little blonde thing. It takes all my self-control not to tear into him just for that. But if he remembers Savannah and I talking at the bar, then maybe he knows more about her.
I set the glass down slowly. “Savannah,” I correct him tightly, squaring my shoulders. “You seen her here before?”
The bartender backs off a little bit, clearly sensing my displeasure. “Yeah, a couple times just recently. Not a regular or anything, though.”
Shit. I was really hoping this guy knew her well and could give me her number or something. Of course not, that would just be too damn easy. Sighing, I nod. “Know her last name or where she works?”
The bartender’s brow furrows as he gives me a look up and down. “Dunno what to tell you, man. I don’t make a habit of asking about customer’s backstories while I pour their tequila shots.”
I swallow, jaw tense. Of course, he doesn’t. I probably sound like a stalker. “Sorry, just…” I trail off, swirling whisky and ice around the bottom of the glass. How the hell do I explain that I’m pretty fucking sure my soulmate spilled her drink all over me last night and now I feel like I might actually go insane if I don’t get to see her again?
The bartender must have seen this nightmare run through my head because he clicks his tongue off his teeth and steps back with a smirk. “I get it, dude. You got it bad!”
I groan but don’t disagree. I take another sip of my drink, but I’m not in the mood for it and I don’t want to be here alone. While the bartender is serving the small queue that’s formed while we talked, I grab a napkin from the stack at the front of the bar and steal the black pen he’s left sitting on an order pad next to the beer taps.
The tip of the pen rips the napkin on my first try, and I ball it up before trying again. I’m usually calm and collected. I have to be to run the company. I’m great in a crisis, let stress roll off me like water off a duck’s back, always ready with a backup plan. I’ve certainly never felt as agitated and tense as Savannah’s absence is making me feel.
I force my grip on the pen to loosen and manage to get through all the numbers of my phone number without destroying the napkin. Deciding it’s best to at least try to be smooth, I scribble a note down onto the uncooperative fabric.
Can’t stop thinking about you. Call me.
I sign it then cap the pen and return it to its place before tapping the bar to get the bartender’s attention. He holds a finger up to the man he’s serving and jogs closer to me with a raised brow.
I shove the napkin at him with perhaps more force than strictly necessary. “If she comes back,” I tell him, pressing the napkin into his palm. “Give her this for me.”