Free Through the Grinder by Cleo Coyle Page A

leather jacket. His nametag read “Mars.”
    He sat opposite me and stared.
    “Mars is an interesting name,” I said, trying to break the black ice.
    “It’s a nickname,” he said without changing his expression. Or blinking.
    Mr. Intense, I wrote while waiting for him to say more.
    He didn’t.
    “We don’t have to talk,” I said. “I mean, if you’ve already made your connections for the night.”
    “Connec tion, ” he said. “Singular. One. You’ve guessed correctly. I’ve already made it.” He looked across the room—in the general direction of my Joy, which made me extremely nervous.
    “Why don’t you tell me about yourself anyway,” I suggested, trying to remain calm. Just in case my daughter completely ignores my pleas to shred your phone number and goes out with you anyway.
    “Whatever,” he said, shrugging again.
    I waited. Nothing. He just kept staring across the room.
    “Are you on any drugs?” I asked pointedly.
    That got his attention. He swung his dark, intense gaze back toward me. “Are you? ” he asked.
    “Yes. Caffeine,” I said flatly.
    His eyebrows rose, and there was the slightest lifting at the corner of his lips. The minimalist’s version of a smile, I presumed.
    “Okay,” he said. “I’ll play. I’m not on any drugs. At present.”
    “Have you ever been arrested?”
    “Yes, actually.”
    Why was I not surprised? “What did you do?”
    The smile was slightly more pronounced. He interlaced his fingers across his chest. “Nothing you want to hear about, believe me.”
    Great.
    “Try me anyway,” I suggested.
    But there was no answer. He just looked away, across the room again—toward my Joy.
    “What do you do for a living?” I asked.
    “Paint. I’m a painter. And a genius.”
    Bing!
    “TIME!” called Nan.
    Mars stood up, put his hands in his leather jacket pockets, and stared down at me intensely. “Charmed,” he said, then walked away.
    I shivered. Crossing my legs, I propped the notepad on my thigh, scratched out Mr. Intensity and replaced it with Mr. Weirdly Intense Painter.
    There was just no way I could let Joy near that guy. No way. If there was any prospective “connection” more potentially dangerous than Mars, I had yet to meet him.
    “Well, well, well,” said a familiar voice. “Together again.”
    I looked up to find the refined features and curly black hair of Brooks Newman. He wore a cream-colored crewneck sweater over tailored charcoal-colored slacks. Brooks seemed to be on the prowl because his hazel eyes appeared much sharper tonight as he looked me over.
    “What are you doing here?” I asked. “I thought SinglesNYC.com was your stomping ground?”
    Brooks shrugged. He moved to the armchair opposite me, sat down, and crossed his legs. “I told you I liked your cappuccinos.”
    “Decaf.”
    “Not tonight.” A small smile lifted his thin lips. “Tonight I feel like I might enjoy some…stimulation. How about you?”
    “I’ve had mine,” I said flatly, holding up my empty French café cup.
    “Yes,” he said, leaning forward and lowering his voice, “but on a cold, cold night like this…wouldn’t you like more to warm you up?”
    “No.”
    “You look very nice tonight,” he said, leaning back and surveying my green velvet dress. I instantly regretted the low cut of the sweetheart neckline, which is where his gaze remained fixed. “That color brings out your eyes.”
    Oh, really? That must be why you’re staring at my cleavage. I glanced toward Nan, trying to estimate how many more minutes I had to endure this.
    “I can’t imagine you’re enjoying yourself,” I told him. “This sort of thing really doesn’t seem your cup of java.”
    “Yours, either, Clare. I thought you weren’t interested in hooking up with men. Just screening them for your daughter.”
    “As a matter of fact, that’s exactly what I’m doing.” I took the pencil and scribbled on the notepad. Brooks Newman: Mr. No Way.
    His eyebrows rose.