The Last Guy
She’s studying me, searching for who I am, but just as fast a man swirls up from behind me, grasping my wrist and lifting it, pressing our palms together, fingers spread in a strange V.
“Rebecca Fieldstone?” His voice is swift and direct, like he’s telling me rather than asking.
“Wha—”
“Rebecca Fieldstone!” the little hostess practically shouts.
My face snaps to hers, and I cut her off with one word: “No.”
“NuqneH!” The man coughs . . . sneezes?
“Gesundheit,” I say.
He’s still gripping my wrist, pressing our palms together, so I give mine a pull. He releases me, and ice blue eyes sear into mine. “I am Phil Byars.”
“You are?”
He’s clean-shaven and wearing slacks and a long-sleeved shirt. With his dark hair tied up in a man-bun, I see tattoos rising out of his collar all around his neckline.
“You look . . . different.”
He smiles, revealing straight white teeth. “I use a fake profile picture.”
“I don’t understand.”
He sweeps an arm toward the dining area, and I notice more tattoos peeking out from his wristbands. “Let’s have drinks.”
“B-but . . .” I look quickly from the smirking hostess to Not Whiteboard Phil.
“Right this way.” The girl grabs two menus and takes off into the restaurant.
My stomach is squirmy, and I feel trapped. New Phil isn’t bad looking—he looks like the lead singer of a metal band or that magician guy in Vegas. But why did he sneeze on me? Was that a hex?
We’re led to a table in the middle of the somewhat crowded restaurant. I notice Phil’s ass isn’t too bad in his black jeans. He’s too skinny, and when he turns to face me, our eyes are level. He isn’t very tall.
“Here you go, Miss Fieldstone!” The hostess emphasizes my name, and I give her the death glare.
My date studies me curiously as we sit. “Do you know her?”
Is it possible he’s the last man on Earth who hasn’t seen my boob on live TV? “I . . . uh . . . I work for KHOT News.”
“Ah . . .” He lifts his chin. “The enemy of the people.”
“I’m sorry?”
I’m interrupted by our waiter. “Welcome to Paulette’s! What can I start you off with?”
I answer fast. “Martini, double, and keep ’em coming.”
“Of course, Miss Fieldstone.” My eyes cut up, and he gives me a signature wink. My face flames hot. “And for you, sir?”
“Corona.”
“Of course. Your bread and water will be right out.”
Phil leans back in his chair, and his fingers form a steeple in front of his mouth, chunky silver rings on most of them. I decide to take this bull by the horns. I’m a reporter after all.
“So you have a fake profile picture. What’s that about? Witness protection program?”
“Nothing so elaborate.” He turns serious, scooting forward, dark brow clutched. “I grew tired of the superficiality, of women only responding to my picture. They only wanted the exterior, this mortal shell.”
“Okay . . .” I’m still on the fence about calling an Uber. If he tries to blackball me, I’ll claim deception. I thought I was dating Dwight Schrute, not Criss Angel. “But it takes time to get to know someone, right?”
His eyes move up and down my body. “What if I were only interested in you for your height, your directness, your sturdy build?”
Did he just call me sturdy? I lean back as the server puts my drink in front of me. As soon as it’s down, I take a huge gulp of the pine tree-flavored beverage.
“Would you like to order?” the man asks, and I look to Phil.
“Give us a minute,” my date says, and I nod.
“I’ll have one more of these while we’re thinking.”
The waiter nods and disappears, and I stare at my date a moment, waiting for the martini to hit me. Once more Phil holds up his hand in that weird salute. His first two fingers are stuck together and his ring finger and pinkie finger are stuck together, with a deep V in the middle.
“Is that the universal sign for spread your legs?” I snort a little laugh. It’s possible my martini is kicking in now.
His dark brow furrows. “It’s the Star Trek salute. It means ‘Live long and prosper.’”
“Oh,” I nod, taking another sip, holding up my hand. “Shama lama lakum.”
“Most people don’t know the Star Trek franchise is based on a whole universe of novels by Gene Roddenbury. He wrote galactic civilizations, complete with customs, languages, fashions . . .”
“So you’re a Trekkie.” It’s not really a question, more an acknowledgment that Fate hates me—as if I didn’t already know this.
Loud female laughter echoes from the other side of the room, and I automatically glance in that direction. When I see the source, I almost drop my drink. I almost forget my own name. Right here, in the middle of Paulette’s, Cade Hill is sitting across the table from Miss Universe Brazil or something. She’s long and lean with silky brown hair and smooth, caramel skin. She’s a freakin supermodel, and Cade had said he was spending time with his mother. Liar!
Quickly, I regain my footing and focus on Phil. I’ll be damned if Cade Hill thinks I’m going to sit here and brood over him while he’s over there having a ball with some brunette Giselle Bündchen. Criss Angel and I are about to have ten times as much fun.
“I’ve been a Trekkie most of my life,” he continues, and I study him thinking. I suppose some . . . very special girl would find this appealing. I simply have to channel her.
“Qapla!” he says loudly, and I jump back.
“Kerplah?” I’m pretty sure that’s the sound my boob made when it fell out on camera.
He grins. “It’s the Klingon word for success.”
I cut my eyes up, putting on my best sex-kitten face. “Is Klingon the only foreign language you know?”
“I can speak a bit of Romulan.”
Of course, he can. “Is that what you said in the foyer?” I try to imitate the snorty-cough sound he made, and he chuckles.
Good. I want him to laugh. I want him to laugh and laugh like I’m the greatest date in all of Houston—because who says I’m not?
He does the noise again. “NuqneH! Is the traditional Klingon greeting.”
Heaven help me. I’ve got to steer us to a topic I can follow. “Do you play any instruments?”
“No, although, I am learning to play the theremin.”
I sneak a glance and see Cade smiling that ridiculous, deep-dimpled smile, and Wonder Woman leans back and laughs as if he just said the funniest thing in the world. My nose wrinkles.
“I’ve never heard of that.” Another martini magically appears before me, and I scoop it up, taking a long drink. “What’s a theremin?”
“It’s an early electronic musical instrument controlled without physical contact.”
I give up. Of all the things . . . Who would have known Hard Rock Phil is even more of a geek than Whiteboard Phil? Dig deeper, Rebecca.
“Okay . . .” I look around, avoiding Cade’s table. “So Klingons are the little guys with the weird ears and the pointy teeth?”
Phil’s eyes light, and I get a huge smile. “Those are Ferengis! You are familiar with Star Trek!”