Skye

My life changed that night in the hotel bar. Little did I know I had entered a different world, one of money and wealth-

No, it's not working. It's clichéd and predictable.

I put my phone down with a sigh and reach for my Old-Fashioned. The drink screams refinement, but as I take another sip, I have to hide a grimace from the strength. I'd ordered it to fit in, too afraid to tell the snooty bartender that I wanted something fruity and sugary. Glancing morosely down at the overpriced drink, it is a decision I regret.

I'd come here to research the novel I was working on. To understand the setting, the rich decor, the throbbing beat of unintelligible jazz music. It's an environment I'm unfamiliar with, and as the English Literature graduate I am, I know all about the importance of immersion. Where better than the Legacy sky bar atop one of the fanciest hotels in Seattle? Floor-to-ceiling windows open up to a skyline, glittering like the diamond necklace the woman next to me is wearing. It's a place to see and be seen.

The bar is only half-full, but every single person is interesting. I've watched a beautiful blonde woman in sky-high heels eat an entire bowl of olives while staring blankly at her much older partner.

The olives were consumed in boredom, I write in the note-taking app on my phone, like so much of her life-experiences to seek experience itself, an escape from the tediousness of reality.

Then I read it back and delete the whole pretentious thing.

Maybe this had been a mistake. I've been sitting at the bar for nearly an hour alone, and it's gone from empowering to embarrassing real fast. I smooth a hand over my tightly fitted black cocktail dress, an impulse buy over a year ago that had come in handy tonight. The novel I'm working on covers class differences and touches on the American Dream. Research is key, which is why I'd ventured to the Legacy on a Thursday evening, in search of inspiration.

But so far, I'd come to only two major conclusions: you have to be really rich to pay the steep drink prices here, and a nice bar is not immune to creeps.

The man to my left shoots me another leering glance. He's nursing what must be his umpteenth scotch, his glazed eyes telling.

Isn't it funny how creepy men exist everywhere, in each and every layer of our society? A suit and a six-figure income makes no difference.

I don't delete that. It's too true.

The man moves a few chairs over, a sly smile on his lips. "Good evening, gorgeous."

"Evening," I say.

"What brings you here tonight?"

"I just wanted a quiet drink," I say, a slight emphasis on the word quiet.

His gaze drops from my eyes to my modest cleavage. "Same here. Let's have a drink together."

"Thank you, but I'm here more for the ambiance than for conversation."

"Now, nobody comes to a bar to be alone." He leans in closer and I'm hit by too strong cologne and far too much whiskey on his breath. This man is keeping it together outwardly, but judging by his bloodshot eyes, he is well past simple tipsiness.

"Well, I did, so if you'll excuse me…"

I try to slip off of the barstool, but his hand on my bare shoulder holds me back. "Don't be so quick to leave."

"Please take your hand off me."

"I don't see-"

A deep voice drowns out whatever protest he was offering. "The lady made herself very clear. Take your hand off her."

The drunken man looks up at the stranger by my side-we both do-and shrinks back. "Ah. I apologize."

"You've had too much to drink," the tall stranger says. "I suggest you retire for the evening, but if not, at least leave the lady alone."

The drunken man's eyes narrow, but he nods. "Didn't know she was taken. Sorry." He ambles off, and I gaze in a sort of dazed horror at the stranger in front of me.

He leans casually against the bar, the top of his expensive shirt unbuttoned, the look in his eyes somehow bored and interested at the same time.

"Are you all right?"

That stupid phrase comes to mind, a jawline that could cut glass. It never made any sense to me, but seeing him now, it finally does.

His features are precise, a five-o'clock shadow darkening his skin. Thick brown hair falls in waves across his forehead-the kind any woman would want to run her hands through. Broad shoulders and an expensive suit. He looks ruggedly wealthy, as opposed to polished rich, which strikes me as an important distinction.

I should write this down, I think weakly. Or take a picture.

His eyes grow concerned. "Miss? Are you sure you're all right?"

"Yes," I say. "Thank you."

"It was my pleasure."

An unpleasant thought hits me, and dazzled as I am, it spills right out. "He left because he thought we were a couple, and not because I said I wasn't interested."

"That's probably true."

"I don't know how I feel about that."

"Bad, I imagine," the demigod says. "He should've respected your no."

"He should've."

"What are you drinking?"

I blink down at my glass. "An Old-Fashioned."

"And you hate it," he says, quirking an eyebrow.

"No, I don't."

"Yes, you do. I've been sitting right there"-he points to a secluded area of the bar-"and you've frowned every time you've taken a sip."

"You've been watching me?"

"I like to people-watch." He tilts his head to the side, giving me a better view of the sharp cut of his cheekbones. "As do you, I think. That's what you've been doing here tonight, right?"

"Yes," I say weakly.

"So? What have you concluded?"