I was looking for a stranger.
The Fishtank wasnât my usual hangout, though Iâd been inside it once or twice. Recently redecorated, it sought to compete with a bunch of brand-new bars and restaurants that had opened in downtown Harrisburg, but though the tropical theme and aquariums were pretty and the drinks cheap enough, the Fishtank was too far away from restaurant row to really compete. What it did have that the other, newer bars didnât, was the attached hotel. The Fishtank, âwhere you hook âem,â was sort of a joke with the young and single crowd of central Pennsylvania. Or at least with me, and I was young. And blessedly, purposefully, single.
Scanning the crowd, I wove my way through the closely set tables toward the bar. The Fishtank was filled, literally, with people I didnât know. One would be the perfect stranger, emphasis on perfect.
So far, I hadnât seen him, but there was still time. I took a seat at the bar. My black skirt rode up a little and my stockings, held up by a garter belt of wispy lace, slipped on the leather stool. The sensation whispered up my thighs, bare above the tops of my stockings. My panties, of even wispier lace, rubbed me as I shifted.
âTröegs Pale Ale,â I told the bartender, who passed me a bottle with a nod.
Compared to many of the women in the Fishtank, I was dressed conservatively. My black skirt was cut fashionably just above the knee, my blouse silky and formfitting, but in the sea of low-riding jeans and navel-baring T-shirts, spaghetti straps and hooker heels, I stood out. Just the way I wanted.
I sipped my beer and looked around. Who would it be? Who would take me upstairs tonight? How long would I have to wait?
Apparently, not long. The seat next to mine had been empty when I sat, but now a man took it. Unfortunately, it was the wrong man. A stranger, yes, but not the one I was waiting for. The guy had blond hair and a gap between his two front teeth. Cute, but definitely not what I wanted. Also unfortunately, he didnât seem to take a hint.
âNo, thanks,â I said when he offered to buy me a drink. âIâm waiting for my boyfriend.â
âYouâre not waiting for your boyfriend.â He said this with unshakable confidence. âYouâre just saying that. Let me buy you a drink.â
âI have one already.â I gave him points for persistence, but I wasnât here to go home with a frat boy who thought ânotâ jokes were the height of humor.
âOkay, Iâll leave you alone.â Pause. âNOT!â
He laughed, slapping a thigh. âCâmon. Let me buy you a drink.â
âIââ
âAre you hitting on my date?â
Frat Boy and I turned, and both our jaws dropped. Iâm pretty sure we each had different reasons. His was probably surprise at being wrong. Mine was in delight.
The man standing next to me had the dark hair and blue eyes Iâd been looking for. The earring. The jeans, deliciously worn in all the right places and the white T-shirt with a leather jacket over it. I was seated on a high bar stool and he still towered over me. I guessed him to be at least four inches over six feet, if not more.
Very, very nice.
My stranger flicked his hand like he was brushing away Frat Boy. âGâwan, now. Go.â
Frat Boy, to give him credit, didnât try to make excuses. He just grinned and got off the stool. âSorry, man. You canât blame me for trying, can you?â
My stranger turned to look at me, and his blue-eyed gaze roamed over my every inch before he answered. âNo.â He sounded considering. âI donât guess I can.â
My stranger took the vacated seat. He held out the hand not gripping the glass of dark beer. âHi. Iâm Sam. Donât say Sam I am, or Iâll toss you back to that doofus.â
Sam. The name suited him. Before he gave it I mightâve imagined him as anyone, but once he did I could think of him as nobody else.
âGrace.â I shook his proffered hand. âNice to meet you.â
âWhat are you drinking, Grace?â
I lifted my bottle. âTröegs Pale Ale.â
âHow is that?â
I sipped. âPale.â