IN WHICH I HAVE A BRUSH WITH — APPARENTLY — HER MAJESTY’S BEST-KEPT TEETH.
In my clingy, scoop neck dress with the chichi Hermès equestrian print — a great setting for my 38DD girls — I braved the intimidating gauntlet of thirty and forty-something guys in suits at the bar, smiling and excuse me-ing my way to the back where the tables awaited. There were so many wolves leering at me in that cloud of testosterone and whiskey, I expected to meet Jack London himself.
As I pushed through, all of a sudden an arm shot out and gripped mine. “Where you going in such a hurry, beautiful?” It was a decidedly British accent.
I looked to my right, up into a dazzling white smile and blazing blue eyes happily inhabiting a tanned, square-jawed face with perfectly calculated stubble, fitting accessory to a gorgeous, bespoke navy blue suit and an equally Savile Row tie. Bond — James Bond. Hot — smokin’ hot.
“Hands off!” I lifted an eyebrow and smiled charmingly to counter the harshness of my comment. I could perfectly calculate, too, a response that was a contradiction, and a shameless tease.
“I’m meeting someone,” I said, looking up though my lashes. But clearly, that hadn’t stopped me from flirting with this new specimen of Hunkus Brittanicus.
“Where is he?” James Bond demanded, looking towards the back. “I think I’ll have to have him eliminated.”
“Woah, Dr. No — have mercy!” I said over my shoulder, flashing a grin as I moved ahead.
Naturally, I wanted to stay and develop that tantalizing first draft by Ian Fleming — however, I had a date, and manners — anyway, being unavailable just made me more hotly desirable for our next encounter.
Vincent was at a banquette in the corner, watching as I emerged from the bar crowd. As I walked towards him, I noted his pics on OKCupid had been too flattering — still, he wasn’t bad, though nothing like the hot, debonair stud I’d regrettably just had to blow off.
Sometimes I’d so much rather be blowing, than blowing off.
Yours truly,
