Problem Child (Jane Doe #2) - Victoria Helen Stone Page 0,2

the nearly empty bar.

“One white wine spritzer, please. And a double of High West Bourye on the rocks.”

The bartender looks gray and tired despite the fact that he’s only about forty. If I had to guess, I’d say he has a little pill problem and he’d rather be anywhere but here on a Thursday afternoon. He doesn’t even raise an eyebrow at my twenty-five-dollar order of whiskey; he just pours it out and slides it over, along with my spritzer. “Put a couple of cherries in the spritzer,” I suggest, which finally prompts a reaction, a disgusted wince as he drops two cherries into my glass. He throws in an orange slice too, so I add an extra dollar to the tip. My drink is practically health food now.

“Cheers!” I exclaim as I slide into the booth Rob has chosen at the front window.

“Whoa.” His mouth crooks down a little when he sees the drinks in my hands, but I push his toward him and pretend not to notice.

“The High West,” I drawl, and the downturn of his mouth changes into a smile.

“Wow, that’s quite a treat!”

“I remembered that you like it.”

Rob has never looked at me as a sexual conquest before. I’m assertive and nearly plain, and as far as I can tell, he likes his girls superhot and pliable. But my admission that I’ve paid attention to his wants and needs softens his face a little. His eyelids dip in a lazy blink. “Thank you very much, Jane. I didn’t expect this.”

I clink my ostentatiously girly drink against his glass and we each take a sip. I hum with pleasure as the bubbles touch my tongue. Wine spritzers are fucking delicious, and I have no idea why they ever fell out of fashion. I fish a cherry out of the glass and beam. “Let’s order. I’m starving!”

We place our orders with a cheerful young man with an Ethiopian accent, and when the bread arrives, I’m ecstatic. “Another round!” I insist, gesturing at our drinks.

“That’s a terrible idea,” Rob protests, but when his twenty-five-dollar drink arrives, he can’t just let it sit there, can he? Eyes slightly wide, he gamely finishes the last sip from his first tumbler and moves it toward the edge of the table.

“This is really nice,” I say.

He cocks his head as if he’s trying to puzzle something out. “Yeah, it is nice, isn’t it?” Do I want to get in his pants? Have I wanted that all along and that’s why I’ve been so prickly and difficult? I can see him reasoning it out and relaxing into the explanation. It’s really the only thing that makes sense, after all. He’s Rob. Everyone loves Rob, and a plain Jane like me must be more susceptible to his charms than most would be.

Cheeks flushed, he lounges back into the high cushions of the leather booth, a knowing smile on his face as the waiter delivers our meals. Rob has ordered a sensible lunch of baked sole and steamed veggies. I ordered the dinner portion of lobster ravioli, and it’s even bigger than I remember.

“Oh God,” I sigh as I take my first bite. “That’s so good.” I groan as the taste sinks in.

Rob chuckles. “Looks like it’s very exciting.”

“Oh, it is. Have you ever had this?”

He shakes his head, and I lean into the table in excitement. “You have to taste it. It’s better than sex.” I cut a ravioli in half—no way am I losing a whole ravioli to Rob—and spear it. As I hold it toward his mouth, I imitate what I’ve seen other people do, parting my lips and darting out my tongue as if I’m reaching for a bite too.

He doesn’t really care about sex with me. I’m not his type. But he understands this interaction. I can see his confidence grow as he chews, his eyes warming with the knowledge that he can finally get me in line. He grins and nods. He is in his element and he’s no longer thinking that he really shouldn’t have this much whiskey at a pre-meeting lunch.

“Isn’t it amazing?” I whisper.

“It’s very, very nice,” he concedes, smiling indulgently as he chews. “I like it.”

“Me too.” I leave the rest of my spritzer until half my dish is gone, but Rob is tipsy enough that he’s forgetting how to pace himself, and the man hasn’t ordered nearly enough fat and calories.

By the time I order one last round of drinks for dessert, he’s drunk and