The first thing I saw when I walked into the bar was all those damn curves.
Full, round ones.
Tall, slim ones.
And my personal favorite—short, sturdy ones. Just right for three fingers of Scotch, neat.
I eyeballed the rocks glass like I could call it to me using my mind if I tried hard enough.
Hey, beautiful.
Hey, beautiful.Come over here and see Daddy.
Come over here and see Daddy.I slid my travel-weary body onto one of the empty stools and leaned on the glossy mahogany bar top with a groan. Jet lag from hell had my head throbbing like mad, and I waved the bartender over, hoping my rudimentary high school French would at least get me a drink.
“Uh, Scotch, s’il vous plaît?” I made a gesture to the bottle and waited hopefully.
s’il vous plaît?The bartender shot me a broad grin in r
