A smattering of claps and hoots echoed around the room as an elbow from behind pushed Sam up the single step onto the edge of the stage. The spotlight swung to her, instantly blinding her as the sweaty man reached for her. Avoiding his touch, she fumbled backwards in heels she wasn’t used to wearing, frantically searching for stage right.
The backdrop curtain tangled in the hem of her dress, tripping her up and sending her windmilling off the platform. As she made her graceless landing, knocking a waitress and her tray of drinks over, the whole room erupted in laughter. She sunk into the first empty chair she found in a tight corner, mortified and ready to admit defeat and go home. Until her eyes locked on those of the dreadfully mediocre rhymester.
Something felt strangely familiar about him as he approached her.
Chapter 16
The moment the woman with the horrible haircut entered the Gaslight Club lounge, Thomas Cook became acutely aware of her presence. It was not her out-of-place attire that commanded his attention, or her flushed cheeks that drew his gaze, but the crash of glass as she bumped into a waitress while falling off the stage and into a vacant seat in the corner.
From where he waxed poetic, Thomas Cook watched her with interest. This enchantingly clumsy gal was definitely one he wanted to know more about.
He bowed as the mixed clapping and laughter subsided, then left the stage and made a beeline for her table.
“Dr. Thomas Cook,” he introduced himself, holding out his hand that the woman had moments ago avoided. But not this time. His name held power in this city, and he knew it.
She shook it, dumbfounded. “I thought I recognized you on stage.”
“You probably know me from Time Magazine. I was nominated for Man of the Year last year,” he stated proudly.
She nodded. “I vaguely remember a much less sweaty version of your face on the 1969 issue that touted your accomplishments in modern medicine. Congratulations on the accolades.”
“Yes, well, I wasn’t under hot stage lights when they did that photo shoot, so…” He swiped at a trickle of sweat dripping down his temple.
“Did you know Adolf Hitler won that very same prestigious claim in 1938?” she replied mildly.
At the least, both Hitler and Cook shared a similar claim to fame—the reason for the death of millions. But the comparison seemed to elude Thomas as he probed, “And you are?”
“Oh, me? Samantha Stanton. But my friends call me Sam.” Not that she had friends to speak of, but if she did, she would have insisted they call her Sam.
Uninvited, Thomas sat next to her. “Then I’ll call you Samantha, because I have no intention of becoming your friend.”
In Thomas’s liquor-addled brain he thought his words smooth, charming even, but to Sam they sounded downright disrespectful and a bit unsettling.
“Those were some pretty impressive acrobatics up there,” he said, gesturing to the stage Sam had fallen from.
“Thanks. I’m a natural, I guess. Do you come here often?” she asked.
“When the mood suits me. Which is every Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday night. What about you?”
“It’s my first time here.”
“Speaking of first time, I’ve never had a lover named Samantha before. You could be the first.”
“Oh, uh, how kind of you to offer, Mr. Cook.”
“Dr. Cook,” he corrected with a wink. “I didn’t study my way through eight years of pharmacology to be a simple mister, you know.”
“In that case, I also prefer people call me Sam,” she reiterated, awkwardly turning her knees toward him until they bumped kneecaps.
“A pity. Samantha sounds more… feminine. You really ought to reconsider.”
“Samantha it is, then.” Sam decided she could put up with it long enough to get the proof she needed to take this narcissist down.
“So…” In spite of all of his connections and wealth and womanizing, Thomas still had a lot to learn about dating, and casual conversation was not one of his strong suits.
“So…” Sam echoed.
“Samantha Stanton. Hm.” Thomas chewed on the words. “Why does your name sound familiar?”
“Maybe you’ve read my advice column?”
“I doubt it,” he answered too quickly.
