“Go with Tyson,” I say, deciding for her. “I want to be alone right now.”
—
The Mansion Bar is cool and dark with a clubby, masculine décor and leather-clad banquettes. Fittingly, the bartender is a classic guy’s guy, and there are also three men at the bar. Two are older—in their forties, maybe fifties—dressed in well-tailored suits and expensive shoes. The third is younger than I am, wearing Wrangler’s, cowboy boots, and a plaid shirt. He has nice brown eyes and looks easier to talk to, so I pick him. I’m not in the mood for a challenge.
I hop on the barstool next to his. “Hi,” I say. “Is this seat free?”
“Hi,” he says. “And yes! It’s free!”
“Thank you,” I say, giving him a seductive smile.
He smiles back at me. I glance down at his left hand, wrapped around his pint glass. No ring.
“I’m Lainey,” I say, loud enough for the other two men to hear. Might as well kill three birds with one stone in case this one doesn’t pan out. Four including the bartender, who is now standing in earshot of us.
“Gus,” he says, eagerly extending his hand.
I shake it, saying, “That’s a cute name.”
“Thanks,” he says. “It’s gotten trendy, but growing up, I was the only Gus in my grade.”
“Your parents were ahead of the curve, I see.”
“Yeah. I suppose they were!” he says, grinning, as the bartender asks what he can get me.
“An extra-cold, extra-dirty vodka martini,” I say, giving him a flirty smile.
“Vodka preference?” he asks, all business. For now.
“You choose. I trust you.”
He nods, then turns to make my drink while Gus asks me whether I’m here for business or pleasure.
“Neither,” I say. “I’m here because my friends made me come down to Texas to meet my sister. Who didn’t know I existed until about an hour ago.”
“Wait. Your sister didn’t know you existed?” he asks. “How’s that?”
I sigh and say, “My dad was married when he met my mom. They had an affair. I was an accident that he never told his ‘real’ family about.”
“Hmm. Well, you look pretty real to me,” Gus says, grinning at me.
“Yeah. A little too real for my sister.”
“Uh-oh. The meeting didn’t go well?”
“That’s an understatement. It was a bloodbath. Hence, the martini.”
“Wow. That sucks.”
“Yeah. But whatever.” I shrug. “What about you? What brings you to Dallas?”
“Work,” he says. “But I’m not staying at this hotel.”
“Are you meeting someone here?”
“No. I just wanted to check this place out. I love nice hotels. The lobbies and bars, that is. I wouldn’t know about the rooms.” He smiles. “Can’t afford ’em!”
I smile back at him, though he’s boring me so far. “What kind of work are you here for?” I ask.
“Litigation. A trial.”
“Oh. You’re a lawyer?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “No. I’m a witness.”
“Was it Mrs. Peacock? With a candlestick? In the conservatory?” I deadpan.
He laughs and says, “No one was murdered, thank goodness. It’s a civil litigation.”
“So what happened? Were you a witness to a slip and fall? Banana peel in a grocery store?”
“No. I’m actually an expert witness,” he says, looking proud.
“Nice!” I say as the bartender returns with my martini, placing it on the bar in front of me. I thank him and take a sip.
“Would you like to start a tab?” the bartender asks.
“Definitely,” I say.
