My eyes swing around the establishment landing on . . .
A flapper.
Hello, lovely.
A deliciously sexy woman leans a hip against the bar. A silvery cocktail dress hits above her knees, the fabric hugging her curves and tits. A long cigarette holder dangles between her fingers. Platinum blonde hair skims her chin in a bob and her pouty red lips shimmer. A feathered gold mask covers her nose and eyes, obscuring most of her face as she chats with an angel on her right, a devil on her left. A friendly smile curves her lips as she talks.
“Hello, roaring twenties,” I murmur.
Nolan elbows me. “Try to get your Daisy . . . but I bet you can’t.”
You can’t figure out my costume, but you figured out hers?
But I have more important matters to tend to than giving my friends a hard time.
I’ve got a literary lady to meet and a bet to take on.
“Consider it done,” I say with the confidence of a McLaren. Those cars know they’re cool.
Spencer chuckles then slaps a Franklin on the bar. “A hundred says Daisy Buchanan won’t give you the time of day, let alone kiss you.”
“Child’s play. I’ll start spending my dollars now.” Then, I set down the prop glass and leave the guys in my dust.
2
Daisy’s a Jerk
I weave through the crowds to the sexy babe in silver, the sequined dress hugging her in the best kind of way.
The tight way.
As I go, I cycle through opening lines for a woman like her, bold enough to get dolled up in a costume hearkening back to prohibition, but clever enough to add a mask that covers most of her face. There’s no simple eye mask for her, and the choice adds to her mystery.
That’ll be my opening—something about the intrigue of a woman who’s stepped out of the pages of a book.
When I reach the blonde beauty, she peels away from her friends and stands defiantly before me. I meet her brown-eyed gaze and part my lips to speak.
But she’s faster. “I never liked Jay Gatsby.”
And the lady bats first.
Also, accurately.
I drag a finger along my tux lapel, modeled after the one Leo wore on the silver screen in Gatsby. “You’re the first to figure out my costume.”
She shrugs easily. “It’s not really that hard.”
“It’s not? My friends all went for ‘gangster.’”
She eyes me up and down like she can’t believe anyone can’t get my costume. “You’re not hanging out with the right people if they can’t tell who you are.”
“That’s what I told them. How did you figure it out?”
“Because, like Gatsby, you are trying way too hard,” she says, punctuating each word with those shiny red lips, and challenging me just like that.
And I like it.
I rest my elbow against the table. “Well, Daisy,” I say in a knowing tone, checking out her costume, “aren’t we quite the pair, then.”
She lifts her chin, her hair moving perfectly with the movement. What color is her hair under that blonde wig? Is it long or short? Wavy or straight? “For the millionth time, I’m not Daisy,” she insists.
I arch a brow, though she can’t see it beneath my mask. “A million people have asked?”
“It’s hyperbole,” she says drily.
“All right, fine. If you’re not Daisy . . . you must be . . .” I take a beat to roam my eyes shamelessly up and down her figure, my gaze landing on the sleek, black object between her fingers. “A cigarette girl?”
“No.”
“A famous flapper from history? How about Betty Boop?”
“Please,” she says, then flicks some strands of her light hair. “Betty was a brunette.”
“Zelda Fitzgerald, then?” I ask.
“If you’re guessing an author, you’re just showing off,” she says, staring at me with those chocolate irises and the barest hint of a grin. One she’s clearly trying to fight off.
“I don’t see the problem with that,” I quip.
“So, you admit you’re a showoff?” Oh, she is a spitfire, all rat-a-tat-tat with words.
“It’s a masquerade. Aren’t we all show-offs? Pretty sure a costume party by its very nature lures the extroverts among us.”
“Sounds like a Book of the Month pick—The Extrovert Among Us,” she says in a highfalutin, PBS announcer tone.
“Wouldn’t you pick up that title?” I toss back.
“No. I prefer a good love story. You know how the saying goes. You have to kiss a lot of frogs.”
I’d like to test that saying tonight. “You’re not wrong there.”
Tossing her head back, she laughs, but she might be laughing at me. “You’re persistent.”
“You’re correct.” Then I eye her, stem to stern. “If you’re not Daisy, you’re a flapper. And I bet the reason you aren’t Daisy is a simple one.”
Straightening her shoulders, she makes a go on gesture. “And what is this simple reason?”
“Daisy was a jerk.”
She holds her hands out wide, a smile lighting her face. Her eyes twinkle with delight. “Thank you! At last, someone realizes that fatal flaw in a Daisy Buchanan costume. Or, really, in the character herself. She’s a terrible example of a heroine.”