Hot to the Touch. Isabel Sharpe
Darcy smacked the bar with her palm, wanting to tell Amy not to answer it. “Told you he’d show up.”
“Oh, my gosh.” Amy took a deep breath, smoothing her hair, and connected the call. “Hey, Colin! How are you? Good. Yes, I’m fine. But I was worried, since I haven’t heard—”
Darcy shook her head urgently. Rule number one: never let a guy think you’ve been sitting around waiting for his call.
Amy cringed and nodded understanding. “Heard from my family in a while and was thinking you were one of them checking in.”
Darcy gave her a thumbs-up.
“Uh-huh. As far as I know. Oh, tonight?” She looked pleadingly at Darcy. “I’m, um …”
Darcy shook her head again, hard enough that her bobbed hair flew out nearly horizontal. Rule number two: Never be immediately available to a guy who hasn’t been available to you.
“I’d love to.” Amy spoke firmly, turning away from Darcy who rolled her eyes. “I’ve really missed you.”
Darcy let out a sound of disgust purposely loud enough for Amy to hear.
“Yes. I know where that is. Okay. Yes. See you in a few.” She shut her phone with a soft sigh.
“Amy. At least pretend you haven’t been panting after his call for—”
“I know.” She held up a hand to stop Darcy’s lecture. “I know.”
“Seriously, if you want men to stop taking you for granted …” She tried to soften the frustration in her voice. “You have to show them you’re worth better treatment.”
“Yes. But as I said, I have really missed him.” She slid off the stool and squeezed Darcy’s shoulder. “You’re right. I know you are. In a week or a month I’ll be miserable over him again. I just—”
“Have really missed him.”
“Wow, how did you know?” Amy looked like a different person, cheeks flushed, eyes snapping excitement. Even her hair had revived.
“Wild guess.” Darcy managed a smile. “Go. Have fun. He doesn’t deserve you.”
“Undoubtedly. And I’ll be screwed over in the end. It’s what men do to me. Then you can say, ‘Ha-ha, told you so,’ and watch in amazement at my masochistic stupidity while I proceed to do it all again with someone else.”
“Gee, um, I’m really looking forward to that.” Darcy rolled her eyes in exaggerated dismay. “Wouldn’t it be easier to stay single?”
“Easier, yes. Better? No.” Amy jumped off the bar stool and strode over to their hostess, Kelly, to ask her to close up.
Darcy watched her go. Easier, but not better … She turned resolutely away and pushed her glass to the bartender. “G’night, Jeff.”
“‘Night, chef. You heading out?”
“Yeah. New place to try tonight.” Darcy had to force the enthusiasm, when she generally loved discovering neighborhood gems. She didn’t mind going out alone, either. In fact, sometimes she preferred the opportunity to concentrate on the food instead of on making conversation.
But tonight …
Among the gossip Ken passed along was that Raoul, Darcy’s unlamented ex-employee, had secured new wads of cash for his restaurant after the original investor had indeed backed out. James Thomas, one of Milwaukee’s wealthiest, had turned Darcy down for Gladiolas, saying women had no place in the restaurant business. She’d had to settle for a lesser amount from the bank, which meant shelving plans for a more elegant downtown address and locating Gladiolas where she could afford to lease.
“Sounds good. Report back.” Jeff, classic stud of few words, acknowledged a patron’s signal and went over to refill his drink.
Darcy slid off her stool and strode through the dining room and into the gleaming stainless kitchen she was so proud of, inhaling the fragrance of food in its many stages of preparation. She collected her things and called out a good-night to the staff, including Gladiolas’s dishwasher, real name Francis McDonald, but everyone called him Ace. Great kid, reliable, could be pulled onto the line when things got crazy busy in the kitchen, but from what Darcy could tell, he lived most of the time in a chemically enhanced universe.
She banged out the alley door, got into her car and drove down National Avenue from her own place on Fourteenth Street to Fourth. Short hop, but she’d been on her feet all day, and while she wouldn’t mind walking over, after a drink and some food, she’d want to get home quickly to her tiny house in Washington Heights, which she’d bought five years earlier after saving every cent she could for the downpayment.
Too bad Amy hadn’t wanted to come tonight. Another wonderful, funny, smart, talented friend wasted on the male population of Milwaukee. Maybe Darcy should introduce Amy to Milwaukeedates.com owner, Marie Hewitt, who’d matched up two of the town’s best and brightest, Candy and Kim. But talking to Marie about matching up Amy would invariably segue into Marie talking about matching up Darcy, and sorry, but Darcy couldn’t be less interested. Though seeing Amy so happy when Colin called …
Nuh-uh, she wasn’t going there. Some women could find happiness in men. Darcy wasn’t one of them. The guys she fell for were angry, controlling and uninterested in supporting her, especially her ambition. Someone had to break that pattern and protect her, and Darcy had nominated herself for the job. Once in a while she allowed herself the luxury of a one-night stand or a casual series of dates, but she drew the line there. Any longer and it became apparent men wanted women who were home for them every night, not out on the front lines battling for their own success. Recently Darcy had also been denying herself those brief encounters. Even those had become dangerous to her sanity.
She found the restaurant and parked on a side street, emerged into the too-chilly air and hurried into the small, warm, welcoming space whose dim lighting created nice intimacy. A clean but battered wooden bar, kept on from the Irish pub this place used to be, dominated the room, furnished with booths and a few tables. Nearly every table and booth was taken, the bar three-quarters full. A good sign, though Darcy was attracting more attention than she liked from the mostly male clientele, even wearing an outfit about as revealing as a Girl Scout’s, an outfit which also happened to be pretty ripe from an evening sweating in the kitchen.
Three stools sat empty at the end of the bar. Darcy chose the nearest to the door, leaving two unoccupied seats next to her, hoping no one would sit in search of a chatting partner.
“Hi, there.” Nice-looking bartender, big guy, middle-aged, with warm gray eyes. Ten years and thirty pounds ago, he would have been a serious temptation. “What can I get you?”
“Arak, please.”
He broke into a smile, bushy eyebrows raised, and responded in Arabic.
“No, no.” Darcy shook her head regretfully. “Not native. I just know the drink.”
“Ah, okay. Coming right up.”
“What didja order? Ah-rack?” The pink-faced guy to her right looked as if he’d been at the bar most of the week.
“Arak. Anise liquor. Very dry. Very good.”
He made a face. “Anise, like licorice? Licorice is candy. Sissy drink.”
Darcy snorted. Said he who was drinking rum and Coke.
“Enjoy.” The bartender set in front of her a glass of clear liquid, another of ice and a small carafe of water. “Like a menu?”
“Definitely.” She ignored Mr. Sissy Drink, who was still muttering about alcoholic candy. Darcy would love to see him try to walk straight after a couple of glasses of arak. Strong as well as delicious.
“Here you go.” The bartender handed her a menu.
Darcy