Having assumed she wouldn’t exchange any more words with the man, especially since she knew she would probably end up stumbling over her words and spitting out something insensitive, she accepted her drink with a smile and took out her phone, using the hand not wrapped up in a bandage to absentmindedly scroll to her e-mail. When she heard the low voice again, she stopped, looking over at him with a questioning look before smiling slightly, answering, “I hope not.”
He seemed gruff and a tad on the unapproachable side, but maybe it was the curious prosthetic on his arm or her feeling vulnerable this weekend, but her smile became warmer and she explained, “My fighter’s a bartender here, and truth be told, I wanted to avoid him before I left.” That was the truth, wasn’t it? She wanted a quiet leave, something that would help her return to normalcy, and cocktail certainly would give her that.
Putting her phone down, she picked up the martini glass, sipping and giving her a chance to glance away, looking at the bottles of liquor lined on the wall. Setting the glass down, she leaned forward, resting her arms on the table, and returning her gaze to him. Had he not been sitting next to her, she would have pegged him as a mutant; it seemed like anyone who didn’t fit a socialite stereotype was instinctively considered to be one. “Are you a visitor?” she asked, raising her eyebrows as well as her drink.