read, you should feel right at home in places like this.”
The bar looked just like the places her mother would take her when she was a kid.
“That's the point,” she mumbled, “this is how I grew up. I got myself out of that and now I'm something.”
“But you're still that same girl, right? Underneath it all?”
She tried to think about that girl. Delilah Smith. They told her ' Smith ' was bland and ' White ' was mysterious. Delilah Smith was still very much inside, but she hadn't come out to play in a long, long time.
“Don't assume to know me. I don't know you, and you don't know me, and that's how it should stay,” she could feel her voice rising, but she didn't care.
The journalist had hit a nerve.
“So why are you still here?” his dark eyes narrowed on her, “You could have walked out at any moment.”
Her eyes darted to the door over the man's head.
“I'm leaving,” she didn't move.
“Fine,” he smiled, “but don't you want to stay and have a real conversation about real things for once?”
“I do have real conversations,” she shot back.
“So let's have one,” he winked, “let's be daring and actually talk.”
Delilah almost said no, but she bit her tongue. The man made her skin itch, but she found herself hanging on his every word. Glancing to the door, she made her decision.
“I don't even know your name."
His smile spread from ear to ear as he held out his hand.
“Nolan Rigby,” he repositioned his glasses with his free hand.
His grip was firm and strong. His fingers lingered on hers, before she pulled her hands away and rested them on her lap. His touch still lingered on her skin.
Nolan wasn't a name she'd heard before, but somehow it made sense. He looked like a Nolan. In her head, she'd been referring to him as ' journalist '.
“You're looking at me funny,” he whispered, “does the name not fit?”
“No,” she found herself smiling, “it fits.”
“Good. Because it's the only one I got.”
She smiled again and nearly laughed, but stopped herself. With a name to the face, he seemed less threatening, but she still didn't want to let her defenses down to the stranger.
“Do you always have to make those stupid jokes?” she quipped.
“You think they're stupid?” he laughed.
“Very.”
“So why do I catch you stopping yourself laughing every time.”
She half-smiled again, but stopped herself. Just like every journalist she'd ever met, he didn't miss anything.
“I'm laughing at you, not with you.”
“As long as you're laughing, that's all that matters,” he smiled cheekily, “you seem to pout far too much.”
“I do not!”
“Oh, you so do. You have this ' diva bitch face ' that you do whenever you see me. It's something like this.”
He wrinkled his nose, pursed his lips and gave her a disgusted look as he recoiled his head. He had her down to a fine art.
“I never look like that,” she circled her index finger around his face.
“This beautiful?” he winked at her, jokingly stroking his jaw with the back of his hand.
Reaching out, she gently pushed his arm, but quickly recoiled and sat on her fingers. She was acting like somebody she didn't know.
“You think so highly of yourself, don't you?”
“Not really,” he shrugged, “I just like to make light of situations. There's nothing wrong with laughing.”
“It gives you wrinkles,” Delilah said coolly.
“It's worth it though,” his tongue ran across his soft, pink lips.
“So, are you going to tell me what made you drink the worst vodka in the world?”
Delilah had almost forgotten about Marcus and the sleazy guy in the bar. She told him everything, but he didn't seem to look surprised.
“Most of those local places don't really like ' strangers '. It's a territorial thing. When a beautiful and exotic looking girl walks into a bar, it makes people do strange things.”
Beautiful and exotic? It didn't sound sleazy or like a come-on, it just sounded like he was being
The bar looked just like the places her mother would take her when she was a kid.
“That's the point,” she mumbled, “this is how I grew up. I got myself out of that and now I'm something.”
“But you're still that same girl, right? Underneath it all?”
She tried to think about that girl. Delilah Smith. They told her ' Smith ' was bland and ' White ' was mysterious. Delilah Smith was still very much inside, but she hadn't come out to play in a long, long time.
“Don't assume to know me. I don't know you, and you don't know me, and that's how it should stay,” she could feel her voice rising, but she didn't care.
The journalist had hit a nerve.
“So why are you still here?” his dark eyes narrowed on her, “You could have walked out at any moment.”
Her eyes darted to the door over the man's head.
“I'm leaving,” she didn't move.
“Fine,” he smiled, “but don't you want to stay and have a real conversation about real things for once?”
“I do have real conversations,” she shot back.
“So let's have one,” he winked, “let's be daring and actually talk.”
Delilah almost said no, but she bit her tongue. The man made her skin itch, but she found herself hanging on his every word. Glancing to the door, she made her decision.
“I don't even know your name."
His smile spread from ear to ear as he held out his hand.
“Nolan Rigby,” he repositioned his glasses with his free hand.
His grip was firm and strong. His fingers lingered on hers, before she pulled her hands away and rested them on her lap. His touch still lingered on her skin.
Nolan wasn't a name she'd heard before, but somehow it made sense. He looked like a Nolan. In her head, she'd been referring to him as ' journalist '.
“You're looking at me funny,” he whispered, “does the name not fit?”
“No,” she found herself smiling, “it fits.”
“Good. Because it's the only one I got.”
She smiled again and nearly laughed, but stopped herself. With a name to the face, he seemed less threatening, but she still didn't want to let her defenses down to the stranger.
“Do you always have to make those stupid jokes?” she quipped.
“You think they're stupid?” he laughed.
“Very.”
“So why do I catch you stopping yourself laughing every time.”
She half-smiled again, but stopped herself. Just like every journalist she'd ever met, he didn't miss anything.
“I'm laughing at you, not with you.”
“As long as you're laughing, that's all that matters,” he smiled cheekily, “you seem to pout far too much.”
“I do not!”
“Oh, you so do. You have this ' diva bitch face ' that you do whenever you see me. It's something like this.”
He wrinkled his nose, pursed his lips and gave her a disgusted look as he recoiled his head. He had her down to a fine art.
“I never look like that,” she circled her index finger around his face.
“This beautiful?” he winked at her, jokingly stroking his jaw with the back of his hand.
Reaching out, she gently pushed his arm, but quickly recoiled and sat on her fingers. She was acting like somebody she didn't know.
“You think so highly of yourself, don't you?”
“Not really,” he shrugged, “I just like to make light of situations. There's nothing wrong with laughing.”
“It gives you wrinkles,” Delilah said coolly.
“It's worth it though,” his tongue ran across his soft, pink lips.
“So, are you going to tell me what made you drink the worst vodka in the world?”
Delilah had almost forgotten about Marcus and the sleazy guy in the bar. She told him everything, but he didn't seem to look surprised.
“Most of those local places don't really like ' strangers '. It's a territorial thing. When a beautiful and exotic looking girl walks into a bar, it makes people do strange things.”
Beautiful and exotic? It didn't sound sleazy or like a come-on, it just sounded like he was being
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