The Starfish Method Read online

  Guy one says, “Brent, I’m telling you, bro. That is the same chick out there. We dated two years ago for like four months, and she was into fish, and the sex was out-of-this-world good. Then, boom. After three months, it turned to shit.”

  Guy two responds, “You think ‘cause her name was Hannah, and she liked fish, and the sex was awesome till it wasn’t that it’s the same chick? That’s the dumbest shit I ever heard.”

  His slurred words have me glancing at him from the corner of my eye. He hiccups and sways on his feet, clearly drunk off his ass.

  Guy one snorts. “No, it’s not. It makes perfect sense. You told me the first three months were awesome, then one day, it just wasn’t anymore.”

  “So?” Guy two hiccups again.

  Guy one slurs his words as the conversation continues. “Let’s go find ‘er and I’ll prove it.”

  At this point, I’m not even pretending not to listen while I wash my hands then lean back against the counter.

  Guy two snorts. “It’s not the same Hannah.”

  Guy one shakes his head vigorously. “It is the same one. There’s no other explanation.”

  Finally, they notice me standing by the sinks. They’re so tanked they can barely stay upright without the assistance of the urinal dividers.

  The first guy frowns. “Are you listening to our private conversation, bro?”

  “If it was a private conversation, I wouldn’t be able to hear it from across the room,” I state.

  Guy two turns to look at me, dick still in hand. “Okay. What do you think then, Mr. Know-it-All?”

  Crossing my arms over my chest, I smirk. “I think this Hannah has low standards if she was dating either of you two.”

  Guy one shakes his head and sways on his feet. “No, that’s not what he meant. You believe me, right? It’s the same chick. It must be, like, her M.O.”

  I shrug. “Could be.”

  Guy one glares at guy two. “I told you, fucker!” Then he punches him in the shoulder, and streams of piss splash across the floor and urinal dividers. They start yelling at each other, and I take that as my cue to leave.

  I roll the drunken dickwads’ conversation over in my head as I walk back to Tom’s private booth. Sitting beside him, I ask, “Does a Hannah work here?”

  He eyes me over the rim of his drink. “I don’t know. I haven’t met everyone yet. Mostly just the bar staff. But there’s another dozen or so that handle the tanks and fish. Why?”

  “I think I might have found the woman who will give me exactly what I want.”

  Red alert! Red alert!

  Why did I stick around and grab a drink before heading home tonight? Oh, that’s right, because Amy begged me to. Stupid Amy and her stupid ideas.

  I duck behind a couple involved in an intense conversation and receive a nasty glare from the woman. “Sorry,” I whisper but don’t move away from them. “Dodging an ex,” I say quietly before peeking over the man’s shoulder to check if I really did see what I thought I saw. Yes, yes, I did.

  Brent and a guy I dated a few years ago, Peter, sit at one of the tall tables just six feet from my hiding spot. How do they even know each other? Why is this happening to me? I’m very particular about not dating men from the same circles, so this never happens. So what the hell?

  Sweat gathers on my nape and palms. I rub my hands over my purple skinny jeans then reach for my phone from my back pocket to text Amy.

  ME ~ABORT. Brent is here . . . AND Peter. I’m out.~

  My phone starts ringing before I can even slide it back in my pocket. I answer, whisper-hissing into it, “What?”

  “Where are you? I’m at the bar. I don’t see Brent. And who’s Peter?” Amy asks way too casually.

  The people I’m using for cover sidestep, leaving me out in the open. I panic and dive behind a couch in the lounge area to my left.

  “Wait, I just saw you. You’re on the ground, aren’t you?”

  “What? I was like Flash fast, dude. You couldn’t have seen me,” I snap.

  I’m greeted by silence.

  “Amy? You still there?”

  “Hannah?” a male voice I unfortunately recognize very well comes from above me. I tip my head back, meeting Brent’s blue eyes as he stands over me.

  “Oh, hi, Brent. Fancy seeing you here,” I chirp.

  “What are you doing down there?” he asks then hiccups.

  He’s drunk. Thank God. I get to my feet then hold out my phone. “Dropped this.”

  Brent sways a little but braces himself with a hand on the couch. “Really? ’Cause it looked like you dive-bombed the floor.” He smiles his big, adorable, boy-next-door smile.

  “Hey, Brent! How’s it going?” Amy appears, giving him a friendly shoulder bump as she comes to a stop beside him. She sniffs then scrunches her nose. “Why do you smell like you pissed yourself?”

  His eyes widen, and he sways again. “What? No I don’t.”

  “Umm, yeah ya do. You might wanna call it a night, big man.” She shoots him a wink then steps toward me, holding out her elbow to me.

  I don’t waste a second, looping my arm through hers and striding away as fast as my Chucks will take me. “Thank you for saving me,” I whisper and press a quick kiss to her cheek.

  “Sometimes, I don’t know what you’d do without me.”

  “Thank God I’ll never have to find out.” We grin at each other as we reach the dining area, and one of the hostesses, Breanna, leads us through the crowded tables.

  “Did you hear the new owner is in tonight?” Breanna asks as we sit.

  I scan the room automatically. We haven’t met yet, so I don’t know who exactly I’m looking for. All I know is he’s some rich dude who knows nothing about marine ecology but obviously has a good nose for business, because this place is booming.

  Breanna points to one of the partitioned-off private rooms on the mezzanine. “He’s up there. God, he’s dreamy. Like, hot, dirty dreams, not that flowers-and-rainbow shit.”

  I choke on my water. “Good to know.” I chuckle.

  “Anyway, Mira says he’s here with his cousin, and hot damn, that guy is smokin' too. Those boys must come from good stock, ’cause they’re tall, dark, and hella handsome.” She bites her ruby-red bottom lip. “What I wouldn’t do to be the meat in that sandwich.”

  My interest is officially piqued. Bree is very selective, and her standards are outrageously high, so these guys must really be something special.

  Glancing at Amy, her gaze is fixed on the room Bree pointed out, then her head tilts to the side. She whimpers and her jaw slackens. I click my fingers in front of her face. “Ames, are you having a stroke?” Shit, what are the signs of stroke again? I run through my medical training.

  Amy shakes her head, snapping out of her daze, and stares at me. “What are you talking about? I’m not having a damn stroke. Look!” she says, jerking her chin in the direction she was just stroking out in. I shift my gaze, and it all makes sense. I’m feeling a little strokey myself now.

  Two of the most gorgeous men I have ever laid eyes on are nearing the bottom of the stairs, and I think I’m drooling a little. I track their movement to the bar where the slightly shorter of the two summons the bartender, Mike, over and talks to him for a moment before Mike points. Right. At. Me.

  Holy crap on a cracker. They’re heading this way. Oh my God, they’re heading this way.

  Amy kicks my shin under the table. “What are you doing? Close your damn mouth and be cool!” she hisses.

  But I can’t. I can’t be cool. In fact, I’m the complete opposite of cool right now. I’m boiling hot, and my heart is pounding out of my stupidly tight chest. Maybe I’m having a stroke?

  Oh goodness. I mentally run through my BE FAST checklist. Balance? Nope, it left the building. Eyes? They are obviously not working correctly, because those guys are getting closer, and it looks like they’re smiling. Face? I can’t shut my gaping mouth, so yep, face isn’t working. Arms? Ah, no. My finger
s have locked so tight around my water glass I’m afraid it will shatter. Speech? Umm, no. I don’t even want to attempt to speak. Time? It’s definitely time to call 911. I’m having a stroke, no doubt about it.

  “Good evening, ladies,” a deep voice yanks me from my panic attack.

  I swallow and lift my eyes to meet those of the taller man, the one who just spoke. I open my mouth to say something, anything, but nothing comes out, so I snap it closed again.

  “You’ll have to forgive Hannah; she’s had a long day,” Amy says with a flutter of her lashes in the direction of the too-hot-for-this-world men. “How can we help you, gentleman?”

  The slightly shorter guy extends a hand to Amy. “It would seem I assumed incorrectly that being the owner of this establishment would guarantee me a table whenever I so desired. We noticed you ladies have two free places at your table and hoped you’d allow us to join you.”

  Amy kicks me in the shin again—much harder this time. It’s going to bruise, damn it. But it does the trick, and somehow, I finally gather my wits enough to speak. “Umm, sure, Mr. English.” I hold out a shaking hand. “I’m Hannah. I work with the animals. And this is my friend Amy.”

  A Cheshire-cat grin spreads across the taller guy’s perfect face, and I don’t know if I should be aroused or afraid. Truth be told, I’m a little of both. Then, he takes the seat beside me while my new boss takes the one beside Amy. She practically vibrates in her seat while I’m left doing an imitation of a stunned mullet.

  “Are you sure you don’t mind us joining you?” that deep voice croons from my side.

  I side-eye him, too chicken to look him fully in the face lest I start drooling. “Sure, why?”

  His big body turns in his seat as he rests his elbow on the edge of the table and places his chin in his palm. He stares at the side of my head; it’s extremely unnerving. “Forgive me if I’m wrong, but you look tense. Am I making you uncomfortable?”

  I swallow. Imagine he’s naked; it’ll make it easier to talk to him. I close my eyes, swing my face in his direction, and open them.

  Nope, the naked thing is not working. My gaze flits over his features, taking in his deep-blue eyes; his straight nose; those perfect, full, pillowy lips; the sharp, defined angle of his jaw; and the shadow of stubble covering it. . . I’m a goner. This dude’s face alone is enough to make me spontaneously combust.

  “I’m Sam,” he says softly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Hannah.”

  My tongue snakes out to wet my dry lips. “Hi, Sam,” I murmur. He must think I’m all kinds of special right now, because that’s all I can say. Nothing else comes to mind. Not a damn word. Any other day and you can’t shut me up, but now, when words would come in super handy, I’ve got nothing.

  Sam’s lips twitch in what I assume is amusement. At least, I hope that’s what it is. It could be a signal to his cousin to get him the hell away from the weird, mute chick he’s been stuck with.

  When I remain silent, he speaks again. “You said you work here, with the fish?”

  I nod.

  His free arm curls around the back of my chair as he makes himself more comfortable, and I tense further. He either doesn’t notice or pretends not to, continuing with his line of questions. “What exactly do you do with the fish?”

  My body relaxes slightly. The water is my safe space, where I’m most comfortable. I swallow the nerves squeezing my throat closed and force myself to speak. “I’m an aquarist,” I say, feeling the passion for my work smothering the last of my anxiety. Taking a steadying breath, I smile. “Which basically means I’m a jack-of-all-trades when it comes to the aquarium. I oversee the monitoring of the water quality to maintain the well-being of all the species we have on display. But the sharks are my main area of expertise.”

  He blinks once, very slowly. I frown, and he loosens the top two buttons of his dress shirt.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  Sam clears his throat. “Are you about to tell me they’re not man-eating beasts intent on eating me?”

  My frown morphs into a full-blown scowl. “They most certainly are not man-eating beasts. That’s a common misconception furthered by ridiculous, unrealistic, unsubstantiated propaganda promoted by fake news and movies.” Nothing sets me off like people insulting my sweet babies.

  He pops a brow. “The many people who have been eaten by them would beg to differ.”

  I jab a finger into his firm, muscled—oh, dear God, so muscled—chest. “Listen here, mister. You are more likely to be killed by a damn cow than a shark. Now, that’s a fact you can take to the bank.” I totally read that on one of my tampon packages, but it’s legit.

  “A cow? Really?”

  “Yes, a cow. You want to point a finger at a vicious beast, there’s your culprit,” I tell him, crossing my arms. “My sweet girls wouldn’t eat you if I sliced you open and threw you in their tank.”

  Those deep-blue eyes of his widen, then he chuckles. “Remind me never to go swimming with you.”

  Then, I realize the ridiculousness of what I just said. Because honestly, they probably would at least have a nibble if I did that. “I might get a little”—I hold my fingers up half an inch apart between us—“defensive of my babies.”

  “Noted,” he murmurs, keeping his eyes fixed on mine. And the smile gracing his gorgeous face knocks the breath right out of my lungs.

  This woman is a breath of fresh air. I’ve never in my thirty years met anyone like her. I can’t stop smiling, and it’s a genuine smile too. It feels amazing.

  The weight that had settled on my shoulders after my run-in with Camille vanished the moment I laid eyes on the petite, pink-haired bombshell sitting next to me. And now that I’ve finally gotten her talking, I can’t shake the feeling that she’s going to turn my life upside down. And I’m totally on board with that.

  When those guys were talking about a woman who, essentially, initiates splitsville with shitty sex after three months, I was determined to find her. But I’m having trouble reconciling the woman in front of me with the one they were talking about. I just can’t see it.

  “You look like you’re thinking really hard right now. I promise I’m not going to try feeding you to my sharks,” she says, a coy smile playing on her lips.

  I want to kiss it right off her face, but I’m getting ahead of myself. I need to convince her to go out with me first. A few tendrils of hair brush against the back of the hand I have curled around her chair, and I turn my palm, catching a few in the tips of my fingers. Soft as silk and slightly damp.

  “Were you working with your babies tonight?” I ask.

  Hannah nods. “I got off my shift an hour ago.”

  “Do you swim with them? The sharks?”

  She smiles so big her pearly white teeth peek out. “I do.”

  My skin prickles at the idea of getting in that tank, surrounded by . . . I swallow. My eyes flick to the aquarium to the left of us and spot a different shark than the one that swam over my head earlier. This one is much larger. “How many sharks are in there?” I gesture to the ceiling with my chin.

  “Four.” She says this like it’s not a big fucking deal.

  “You willingly swim in a tank with not one, but four sharks.” I scan her small frame then return my gaze to her face. The amusement shining in her eyes gives me pause. “What?”

  “You’re scared of sharks, aren’t you.”

  She doesn’t pose it as a question, but a statement. I may as well have thrown my man card on the table and just let her have it, because she obviously has bigger balls than I do. “I prefer to think of it as having a strong sense of self-preservation.”

  Her laugh is light and melodic, and it hits me right in the gut.

  “Right, whatever you say,” she says, continuing to chuckle softly.

  Being laughed at is not something I’m accustomed to. But surprisingly, I don’t even care as long as I get to hear that sound.

  A waiter appears to take our orders, and I’m stun
ned by the amount of food Hannah requests. The look on my face must betray my surprise.

  “What, you thought I’d order a salad? Do I look like I eat salad?” she asks, waving her hand over her tiny body.

  “Umm, yes?” I hedge, unsure what else to say. She really is tiny, especially compared to me. I don’t know where all the food she asked for is going to go.

  She shakes her head and laughs again. “I’m a fully-fledged meat-eater, just like my girls. You don’t get an ass like this from eating salad.”

  My gaze instantly shoots down her body, but my view’s impeded by the table. “I wouldn’t know. I haven’t seen it.”

  “You’ll have to take my word for it, then.” She smirks.

  I’m irrationally disgruntled by the possibility of not feasting my eyes on that ass of hers. “I’d prefer to make that judgment for myself.”

  “I’m sure you would. But I’ve been on my feet all day. You will just have to wait to watch me walk away at the end of the night.” Then she winks.

  When I first sat by her, I’d thought maybe she was being weird because she’d realized who I was and how much I’m worth. It wouldn’t have been the first time a woman has freaked out at the prospect of my wealth. But then, when she relaxed and started talking about her job and joking with me, I realized it had nothing to do with money. She was simply nervous.

  She treats me like I’m a normal, average guy. It’s a novel feeling. Does she know who I am and doesn’t care, or is she completely clueless as to who she threatened to knife in a shark tank? I’m tempted to ask, but I don’t want to ruin this if it turns out she’s none the wiser. So, I keep my thoughts to myself, instead, continuing with our flirtatious banter.

  Leaning closer to her, I whisper in her ear, “What if I don’t want you to walk away, Hannah?”

  Holy hot flushes. Is it warm in here? Yep, I’m pretty sure the air conditioner just broke down because I. Am. Dying.