“What?” he asks.
“That’s my nickname for you. Jellybean.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t like it. I want a do over.”
“Too late. If I’m coconut, you’re jellybean.”
Abigail, from somewhere nearby, laughs out loud.
I stare at Jellybean for a moment, and his face softens into a smile. It could be the alcohol, but there is something about him. Something that has my interest piqued. I mean, he’s hot as hell, there is that. Lots of guys are hot in suits, though. Whatever it is, I can’t put my finger on it quite yet.
He also seems genuine and relaxed, not just on the prowl. Normally I am a pretty good judge of character, but my last boyfriend disaster has not only left me in a slump, it left me questioning myself. And that’s even worse.
Maybe my friends are right, and I should put myself out there again. Sure, this guy isn’t going to be around next week, but who says I need him to be? Maybe he is exactly what I need to prove that my instincts are still on point. And why not have a little fun in the process.
“What?” he asks.
“What?” I ask back.
He cocks his head to the side. “You look like you’re doing advanced calc three in your head. Please tell me whatever you’re thinking about isn’t coconut monkey related.”
“Maybe,” I say as I put a finger on his chest and walk it down, poking him playfully and confirming that he does, in fact, have rock hard abs underneath that dress shirt. Mmmmm. Okay, fine, so now I am flirting. “Let’s say I have a question for you. And it’s not about the monkeys.”
I try to narrow my eyes at him seriously, but judging by his amused expression, I’m not pulling it off.
“Ask away,” he says.
“Did you or did you not come over here to ask me out?” I take a sip of my drink and watch him. His eyes get wide for a moment. He recovers quickly and now I sit and wait.
I glance across the bar to see Abigail still purposely making herself scarce while also lurking close enough to swoop in if needed. She’s a good one.
He sucks in a breath. “Okay, fine. I think you’re a good dancer and I came over here to ask you out, but you weren’t into it, so I’m okay just sitting next to you talking and enjoying the beach. And letting you give me humiliating nicknames.”
That’s a good answer.
He stares into my eyes and I nearly get lost in them. And apparently, he’s not done with his answer. “In fact, you’re good company, and this conversation that we’re having is the first time in a while that I’ve managed to forget about my own issues.” He raises his glass. “Thanks for that.”
I only realize how sucked into the conversation I am when my phone buzzes. The faint notification sound trills the Imperial March. That means it’s Brad. Ugh. Speak of the devil.
I glance back at Abigail and even though she is still wiping already clean tables and specifically not making eye contact, I’m happy she’s here for moral support at the thought of my ex.
No more contact with your ex, Angie and Fi said. They have my best interest in mind, and they’re right. Except that despite it all, I’m curious about what the son of a bitch could possibly want now.
Maybe he’s broken down on the side of the road, or in jail, or getting sued by all the people he has taken advantage of. Who wouldn’t want a front row seat to see that kind of karma in action? It’s not likely, but it’s possible.
I flash Jellybean a quick smile, laughing at the nickname I gave him. Then I pick up my phone. One glance at it reveals the most annoying message ever.
He wants to get back together. After six months. After everything he did to me. I can’t believe it. He has to be kidding. Or drunk. Or most likely, he must have run out of money again. Asshole.
Thankfully I am in a much better place now than I used to be. At least I am slightly less murderous in my thoughts of him. I consider a bunch of different responses varying in saltiness from not a snowball’s chance on the beach to fuck off. In the end I decide not to respond at all.
“You okay?” The concerned, sexy baritone voice next to me asks.
I look up at him. “Yup. I’m okay. Thanks.” I put the phone on vibrate and slip it back into my purse.
“Hey,” I say, turning my attention back to him. “I have one more question for you. Have you ever ditched a date while she was ordering desert and left her with the entire check? I mean, I would have happily gone Dutch in the first place, but he insisted. Before he ditched me. Though, to be fair it was our waitress he left with, so technically I didn’t get charged for the meal or anything. So there’s that.”
His eyes get wide with horror. It makes him, if possible, even more adorable. Then he blinks at me like he’s a shark and I just punched him in the nose. “Seriously? That question is awfully specific. You’re really asking me if I have ever left a woman with the check?”
He searches my eyes for signs that I’m joking. I guess by his response that he has money. Guys faking wealth are usually way smoother. They have prepared answers. And usually more of a desire to show off. He seems content in his own skin. That’s pretty unusual for the clientele here, tourist or not.
“No,” he says at last, softly. “I have never run out on a date. Did that
