Unfinished Business by Isabelle Drake Page B

searching for those hands, I smile at his face and say, unoriginally I might add, “Hi.”
    Picking up on my conventional greeting style, he replies, “Hi.” His green gaze skims over my dress and for some unfathomable reason, he actually frowns. “Are you ready?” he asks, after his eyes focus on mine.
    Don’t I look ready?
    “Yeah,” I stammer and wobble a bit. Should I ask what the problem is? He hates dresses? He thinks I’m a witch? “I have to grab my purse.”
    He nods so I turn away to snatch up my smaller, going-out-with-a-guy purse. Scotty—Hairdresser to the Stars—and I agreed that men are afraid of women who carry huge over-stuffed purses so I always stick to the ‘smaller is better’ approach.
    The Dog and I shuffle around each other in the hall. I giggle stupidly, lock the door then start working my way down the steps in my high-heeled boots. It isn’t easy and I’m already rethinking my footwear choice.
    Also, me being in front of him is not at all right.
    I twist sideways and force him to look at my face by saying, “Did you have any trouble finding this place?”
    “Um. No.” Then, perhaps because he realizes I can see him staring straight at my butt, his nicely squared chin jerks up. For no apparent reason a bright smile flashes across his face. By this time, we’ve reached the bottom of the steps so I take the opportunity to sweep the door open and hold it for him. He lumbers past and I get a whiff of his aftershave. Very clean. And manly.
    Pretty good stuff actually.
    His shoulders are robustly wide and much more substantial than any other guy I’ve ever been out with. Even the muscles of his back bend and flex as he walks.
    My heart starts to pound with weird nervous energy.
    Have I been overlooking an entire section of the male population? The big, muscular athletes? Honestly, I’d never even considered them before but I don’t like basketball and never watched football, except with my dad. I don’t have to care about the sport to like the man who comes off the field. And right now, I’m liking this particular man very much. His body, anyway.
    Sure, there is more to a man than arms and legs, but I’m not thinking about living the rest of my life with this guy. I only want a night out. A chance to step out of that fog that has followed me from the country, live some, forget some.
    What does he want?
    “Pizza in Greektown okay with you, Hayley?”
    Of course. He wants food. How could he not? He must need at least three thousand calories a day just to carry himself around.
    He yanks open the passenger door of his red, four-door car, so I climb in. Once he’s behind the wheel, I reply with what I hope is a cute smile that says—‘you like me already’. “Pizza is fine.”
    “Some girls don’t like pizza. All that wheat and carbs.”
    Since when is wheat bad?
    The car rumbles away from the battered curb and we weave through the potholed side streets of Detroit. Greektown is a weird slice of the city about seven blocks from the Detroit River and Hart Plaza. Hart Plaza is a cement park that runs alongside the murky river. All summer there are dozens of free concerts there.
    Imagine the world’s largest free outdoor country music festival right smack in the middle of Motown. Thousands of boot-wearing, hat-toting displaced hilljacks gargling Coors. The ferocity of their fun is fueled by their fat, factory paychecks from Ford.
    Frightening? Yes. That’s why it was moved and they started charging to get in. But not everything unsettling gets moved. How about the world’s largest techno music festival? Hundreds of geeky German guys—yes, with real accents and bristly mustaches, and direct from Metro Airport—trying to pick up rich high-school girls from West Bloomfield. There’s something really unsettling about pink-haired girls from the suburbs wearing those frayed, elephant leg pants and sucking on pacifiers. Those poor Germans. At least the candy necklaces are cheap.
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