Barbara Dunlop - The Twin Switch

She was, in a way. Just not in a good way.

Halfway through my glass of cola, my attention caught on a man on the other side of the lounge. He rose and was moving in my general direction. He stopped at one table and chatted, then he stopped at another, and then he waved to a third.

I’m admittedly not the best at facial recognition. Every September I have to make a seating chart for each class and then work really hard to memorize the students’ faces. But even with my limited skill, and at this distance, I could swear this was shaggy-neat-hair guy from San Francisco.

I squinted in the dim lounge light, watching him walk and talk and smile.

Then he looked me straight in the eyes, and my chest jolted with that same electricity. Either this was him, or I was a huge sucker for a particular type.

He was coming straight toward me now. Then again, I was sitting near the exit. I told myself not to get too excited. But when it came to good-looking, possibly eligible men, myself didn’t listen much.

My brain started to hum. I should keep eye contact. I should smile. I should say something.

“Hello,” he said, slowing to a halt next to my table.

“Hi.”

A beat went past in silence.

I started to break it. “Were you by any chance—”

I stopped, distrusting my own memory and not wanting to look foolish. Then I told myself to speak up. That was what I told my students. If you have a question, speak up. There are no stupid questions.

“Were you by any chance just in San Francisco?” It did sound foolish when I said it out loud. Worse, it sounded like a line. I might as well have said: “Do you come here often?”

Sweat instantly gathered at my hairline.

“The Archway?” he asked.

Relief rushed through me. I wasn’t imagining things. “Yes.”

“I thought I recognized you.”

My embarrassment disappeared, but my hormones zipped off like a rocket ship. Up close, he was a hunk, superbuff, great-looking, oozing sensuality.

“Business or pleasure?” he asked in a gravelly voice that seemed to come straight from his deep chest.

It was neither, but I wasn’t about to go into detail.

“Pleasure,” I said.

He swung his gaze around the lounge. “Are you here alone?”

“Yes.” I hadn’t found Brooklyn yet, so I was currently alone.

He smiled at that. “I’m Max Kendrick.” He looked at my drink. “Would you like something more interesting than cola?”

I almost said no. I wasn’t here to get picked up in a bar. Then again, this was far from a honky-tonk. It was a fancy hotel lobby. And hadn’t I been fantasizing about this very thing just yesterday—meeting a great guy on my gals’ weekend?

This one seemed pretty seriously great, and he was dropping right into my lap, and I was sitting here tongue-tied and questioning every breath I sucked into my lungs. I had to get a grip.

“Have you seen the price list?” I don’t know why that silly question popped into my head. If he was staying here, and if he was offering, he must be able to afford the prices.

His smile broadened. “A time or two.”

“Sure,” I said, before I could come up with anything more senseless to blurt out.

“Great.” He sat down at the table. “What’s your pleasure?”

I considered pulling a Brooklyn by asking him to choose something for me, maybe batting my eyelashes and pretending to be überfeminine.

But überfeminine wasn’t me. Neither was batting my eyelashes, or pretending I didn’t know my own mind.

“A chardonnay.”

“Any preference on the label?”

“No preference.” Whatever the house served was going to be fine with me. Given what I’d seen so far of the house , I was betting their wine would be spectacular.

He gave the waitress a glance, and she came straight over.

“Can you bring us a bottle of the Crepe Falls Reserve?”

“Right away,” she said.

“A bottle?” I asked, wondering if he was less of a gentleman than I’d guessed. Was he expecting me to knock back a few this early in the afternoon?

“Better value that way.”

“So you’re not trying to get me drunk?”

“Do you have a reason to get drunk? Is everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine.” The answer was automatic—even though fine was quite the stretch at this particular moment.

“Okay,” he said, looking suspiciously at my expression. His gaze seemed perceptive.

I had to tell myself he couldn’t read my thoughts. “It’s all very fine.”

“If you say so.”

“I do.” I took another sweep around the lobby looking for Brooklyn. I couldn’t let her slip past me because I was distracted by Max Kendrick.

“You sure you’re not with someone?” he asked.

I gave him a look of reproach. “I’m sure.”

“You’re jumpy,” he said.

“You’re suspicious.”

He shrugged without denying it.

Fair enough, I supposed. We’d only just met.

“I’m watching for someone,” I said.

“Who?”

“A friend. A girlfriend. I’m meeting her here and I don’t want to miss her.”

“That’s not exactly alone.”

“It is until she gets here.”

“You lied.”

“I didn’t lie.”

“You omitted. You’re hiding something.”

I wasn’t about to touch that one. “You thought I was a cheater.”

“Maybe.”

“Is that a takes-one-to-know-one statement? Do you have a girlfriend? Are you a cheater?”

“Nope.”

“How do I know you’re not lying? Cheaters probably lie.”

His smile said he got that I was joking. I felt warm about that. Not everyone caught on to my sense of humor.

The waitress returned with our wine, and we both fell silent as she poured.

When she left, he held up his glass for a toast. “To honesty and integrity.”

“Faith and loyalty.” I thought about Brooklyn as I touched my glass to his.

I took a sip. The wine was outstanding—crisp, buttery and light on my tongue.

“Now that we know we’re on the same wavelength,” he said. “Tell me something about you. Maybe start with your name.”

I realized then that he’d introduced himself, but I hadn’t.

“It’s Layla—Layla Gillen.”

“Nice to meet you, Layla Gillen. Will you be in Vegas for long?”

“I certainly hope not.”

He quirked an eyebrow. “You have something against Vegas?”

“No, nothing. It’s the first time I’ve been here.” I scanned for Brooklyn again. I spotted a blonde woman in the distance, but she turned and I saw her profile—not Brooklyn.

“Where are you from?” Max asked.

I turned my attention back to him. “Seattle. You?”

“I have a place in New York, but I travel quite a bit. What do you do in Seattle?”

I didn’t want to sound nerdy. Then again, I sure wasn’t about to lie.

“I’m a teacher.”

“What grade?”

“High school.”

“What subject.”

“Math.”

His smile said he’d discovered an embarrassing secret.

My pride kicked in. “You have something against mathematics?”

“You don’t look like any math teacher I ever had.”

“I’m fully qualified.”

“I’m not questioning that.”

“It sounded like you were.”

“No.” He cocked his head and his gaze grew warm. “I was thinking if my math teachers looked like you, I’d have enjoyed the subject a whole lot more.”

My heart fluttered. It seriously, embarrassingly, fluttered there for a second.

My cheeks grew warm, and I told myself to get a grip, covering the reaction with another sip of wine.

This was obviously a crush-at-first-sight, and I’d never felt anything like it.

I didn’t want to check into a 700-dollar-a-night hotel room when I had a perfectly wonderful prepaid room waiting for me back in San Francisco. But evening was falling, and there was still no sign of Brooklyn.