Spooning Read Online Free PDF Page B

when we visited on weekends. Dad would take him to the club for a quick round and an in-depth discussion about life goals over a glass of Scotch. Oh, I can just see the wedding now. Vera Wang, peonies and hydrangeas, pink striped tent, Nantucket. Now don't get me wrong, I'm not someone who plans this all out, like Wade—I just daydream really, really big.
    As Mr. J. P. Morgan high-fived his friend at the bar, my bitch radar immediately clicked on. With my extra set of eyes,I noticed several obstacles: a peppy-looking brunette smiling at him; a tall, curvy, dark-haired lady (“lady” due to the extra years on her which, in turn, made her not allowed in Top Shelf) who crinkled her eyes toward him in a flirty glance over her glass; and a bed-headed blonde who was exuding sex his way from another corner. If I just knew, had a sign from above, that he was destined to be mine, then I wouldn't have to sweat these competitors while I waited, hoping that he would see me and make his way over to join our group in the back.
    Syd had ordered a Citron and soda and was gleefully telling us about her new job. Besides Macie and Wade having jobs (which didn't really count since they had lined them up before graduation), Syd was the first to get a job in NYC. As psyched as we were for her, it made the gut-wrenching, tummy-thumping feeling of employment anxiety pound a little harder.
    Syd was the newest fake hair distributor on the block; selling wigs, falls, and extensions all out of a fancy looking tool- box like an Avon lady. “So I just go from salon to salon,” she explained. “Indian hair is the ultimate in quality.” Tara began to choke on her rum and Coke. “No, really. Jessica Simpson uses our products.”
    “Hairball,” Tara quipped pointing to her throat, prompting herself to gag harder. Meanwhile, I was distracted following Mr. J. P. Morgan oh-so-subtly with my alcohol-glazed eyes. Suddenly my heart stopped. He'd turned and was making his way back toward us.
    Typically, he and his rowdy Brooks Brothers buddies traveled in a pack, congregating around the pool table in the corner. But this time it was different. I held my breath as he made his way south to my end of the bar. Then I understood: he was trying to garner the attention of the bartender for a refresher.He had been heading my way because there was an open stool, not because the open stool was next to me. He let out a dramatic frustrated sigh.
    “Ha!” I laughed, not realizing it had been out loud. He swung his baby blues on me.
    “Oh, sorry.” I stammered. “Not laughing at you. It's just your sigh sounded like my dog, well, my parents' dog, well, not that you remind me of a dog …” my loquacious conversation petered out.
    “Ha!” Now it was his turn. I was sure that my cheeks matched my Cosmopolitan. “I just can't get the bartender's attention,” he grumbled, waving his hands like a high school cheerleader as the bartender breezed by.
    “Hey, Tommy!” I called. The bartender spun around like a gold medal ice skater.
    “Charlie, what can I get you?” I looked at my almost-full drink. Taking a huge swig, I said, “I'll take another of these and whatever he needs.” Mr. J. P. Morgan gave me an appreciative glance, in which I basked, before he rattled off a list of drinks.
    “Thanks,” he said as he balanced the glasses and bottles as made his way back toward his group by the pool tables. I watched as he deposited the drinks—and then turned and headed back my way.
    “So smile for me,” he commanded.
    “What?”
    “Just smile.” I faltered and then gave him my best Farrah Fawcett beam.
    “Yep. That's what does it, Charlie.” He remembered my name! Smartie!
    “Does what?”
    “Makes men fall to their knees in servitude.” Oh, I likedthe sound of that. Suddenly, it was just him and me, talking and laughing. Our hands were on each other's hips and drinks were definitely gracing our lips. For tonight, I was J. P. Morgan's target and he was a