Chapter 3: An Idiot Who Can't Take a Hint.
(Rory's POV)
The haze of the wine was finally starting to blur the edges of my pain, softening the sharp sting of Jonathan's betrayal into something duller, more manageable.
I sat slumped at the bar, my elbows propped on the polished counter, the empty glass in front of me reflecting the dim golden glow of the liquor shelves. The faint sound of jazz wove through the air, mingling with the low murmur of conversations and the occasional clink of glasses, but it all felt distant to me, like I was submerged in a dream where the world couldn't quite reach me.
The scent of aged whiskey and polished wood wrapped around me, a strange comfort compared to the chaos in my chest. I traced the rim of my glass absently, my thoughts a tangled mess of anger, hurt, and questions I didn't want to answer.
I was so lost in my own head that I barely noticed the shift in the air, a subtle intrusion, a clean, woodsy scent with a hint of citrus cutting through the bar's heavy aroma of alcohol and faint cigarette smoke.
It was sharp, deliberate, like it belonged to someone who knew exactly how to make their presence known. The faint scrape of a chair against the worn wooden floor barely registered until a smooth, confident voice sliced through my fog, each word dripping with a practiced charm that set my teeth on edge.
"Didn't expect to find such a cute and petite beauty drinking all alone at a place like this."
I blinked, my lashes fluttering as I turned my head just enough to take in the man who'd settled onto the barstool beside me. Blond hair, tousled in that effortlessly perfect way that made him look even more appealing.
A tight white shirt clung to his lean, sculpted frame, the sleeves rolled up to reveal the veins snaking along his forearms, details that were clearly meant to draw attention. Dark jeans hugged his legs, completing the look of someone who knew how to command a room without breaking a sweat. His sharp jaw rested lightly against his right hand, a slow, knowing grin curving his lips as his eyes. mischievous, unreadable, and far too intense, studied me like I was a puzzle he was determined to solve.
"You may call me Ethan," he said smoothly, his grin widening as he tilted his head, clearly expecting me to melt under his gaze or at least offer a coy smile in return. "And you are?"
I let out a slow, deliberate breath, my irritation flaring like a match in the dark. Did he really think I was in the mood for this? After everything I'd just been through?
The image of Jonathan's lips on that woman's, her fingers in his hair, flashed through my mind, reigniting the ache in my chest. I didn't have the energy nor the patience for some cocky stranger's flirtation.
Without a word, I turned away from him, my movements obvious as I grabbed the bottle of deep red grape wine and poured myself another glass, hoping he'd get the message.
The liquid glinted under the bar's low lights, a rich, velvety promise of numbness. I downed it in one swift gulp, the burn spreading down my throat and settling in my stomach, doing little to dull the raw edge of my emotions. The glass hit the counter with a quiet but deliberate thud, my silent refusal to engage.
Ethan's grin flickered, just for a moment, his brows lifting as if my dismissal caught him off guard. I could feel his eyes on me, that amused glint never quite fading, like he was more intrigued than offended. Judging from his appearance, I could at least guess that most women probably fell head over heels for him. giggling, blushing, tossing their hair in response to that polished charm. But I wasn't most women, and tonight, I was as far from that kind of mood as you could get.
"Please don't even…" I muttered, my voice low and edged with exasperation as I shot him an irritated sideways glance. "I came here for a drink, nothing else. If you're that desperate, I'm sure there are other women here who'd love to entertain you."
The words came out sharper than I intended, but I didn't care. Let him be shocked. Let him walk away. I wasn't here to stroke his ego or play along with whatever game he was running.
Ethan's expression shifted, his eyes widening slightly, a mix of surprise and something like fascination crossing his face. He leaned back slightly, his fingers tapping lazily against the counter as he let out a low, thoughtful chuckle. "Well, well," he mused, his voice rich with amusement. "This is a first."
I rolled my eyes, slouching further against the counter, my fingers tightening around the neck of the wine bottle. The nerve of this guy. Did he think I was some damsel waiting for a knight in designer jeans to sweep in and save me from my misery? I just wanted to be left alone, to drown out the sound of Jonathan's betrayal in peace. But Ethan, apparently, was not the type to take a hint.
To my utter disbelief, he reached forward without hesitation, his fingers curling around my empty glass like it was his own. Before I could process his audacity, he lifted the wine bottle... my wine bottle... and poured himself a generous amount. The deep red liquid catching the light as it filled the glass.
My gaze snapped to him, a flicker of disbelief cutting through the haze of my thoughts. Was he serious? My brows drew together, my arms folding tightly across my chest as I fought the urge to snatch the bottle back.
"What do you think you're doing?" I asked, my voice sharp with annoyance, my whiskey-hued eyes narrowing as I glared at him.
Ethan, completely unbothered, swirled the wine in his glass with a casual elegance, like he was savoring a fine vintage at a tasting rather than stealing my drink in a dive bar. He brought the glass to his lips, taking a slow, deliberate sip before letting out a satisfied sigh. "Well, since you don't seem in the mood for conversation," he said, his lips curling into an infuriating smirk, "I figured we could at least share something else, like this bottle of wine. After all, what's the point of drinking alone when there's someone sitting right next to you? Misery loves company, doesn't it?"
My fingers twitched against my arm, my knuckles aching with the memory of connecting with Jonathan's jaw earlier that night. The urge to punch this guy square in his smug face was almost overwhelming, a surge of anger rising in my chest like a tide.
Who the hell did he think he was? First, he invades my space, then he helps himself to my wine, and now he's throwing clichés at me like I'm some heartbroken cliché myself? I exhaled sharply, forcing myself to look away before I did something I'd regret. "Suit yourself," I muttered, my voice clipped, though the tension in my shoulders betrayed how much he was getting under my skin.
Ethan chuckled, clearly enjoying himself as he took another slow sip, his gaze never leaving me. "You know, I'm usually pretty good at reading people," he said, his voice smooth and confident, like he was delivering a lecture to an eager audience. "And I can tell when someone's drowning in their own thoughts, trying to push the world away with every drink they take. You don't strike me as the type who sulks over nothing, so I can only assume something—or rather, someone—did quite the number on you."
His words hit closer to home than I wanted to admit, and for a moment, I froze, my breath catching as the image of Jonathan and that woman flashed through my mind again. The way his hands had been on her, the way he'd looked at me with that pathetic mix of guilt and panic—it was all still so vivid, so raw. I hated that this stranger could see it, could read the pain written across my face like it was an open book. My jaw tightened, and I turned my head further away, staring at the rows of liquor bottles behind the bar as if they held the answers I was too afraid[to face.
"Leave it alone," I said, my voice low and edged with warning. "You don't know me, and I'm not here to spill my life story to some guy who can't take a hint."
Ethan's grin didn't falter, though there was a flicker of something else in his eyes, curiosity perhaps, or maybe respect. He leaned back slightly, resting his elbow on the counter as he studied me, undeterred by my sharpness. "Fair enough," he said, his tone lighter now, almost playful. "But you've got to admit, it's not every day you meet someone who'd rather punch a guy than flirt with him. Makes me wonder what kind of story's behind that fire in your eyes."
I snorted, the sound bitter and involuntary. "You're barking up the wrong tree, Ethan," I said, his name dripping with sarcasm as I finally met his gaze. "I'm not your puzzle to solve, and I'm definitely not your entertainment for the night."
For a moment, he just looked at me, his expression unreadable, that mischievous glint still dancing in his eyes. Then he laughed, a low, genuine sound that caught me off guard. "Oh, I like you," he said, shaking his head as if I'd just handed him a gift. "You're a tough one, I'll give you that. But I'm not so easily scared off."
I rolled my eyes again, grabbing the wine bottle and pulling it closer to me, a silent claim. "Good luck with that," I muttered, pouring myself another glass. The wine's burn was familiar now, a steady anchor against the storm of emotions swirling inside me. Ethan could sit there all night with his smug grin and his stolen wine, but I wasn't going to let him or anyone, pull me out of the cocoon I'd built for myself tonight. I'd come here to forget, not to be someone's challenge.
Still, as I sipped the wine, I couldn't shake the feeling of his eyes on me, steady and unrelenting, like he saw something I wasn't ready to show. And for reasons I couldn't quite name, that made me angrier than anything else.