Believe It or Not by Tawna Fenske Page A

Violet’s plan.
    “You don’t know your date’s name?” she hissed in his ear.
    Her hair tickled his nose, and Drew fought the urge to drag her down on the carpet and grope her under the table.
    Classy, dude. Really classy.
    “Help me out,” he whispered back.
    “Me?”
    “I just need a clue.”
    “No kidding.”
    “Her name’s been on the tip of my tongue all night, but I can’t remember.”
    “Maybe you should be more selective in how you use the tip of your tongue.”
    He grinned. “Are you talking dirty to me under the table?”
    “Merely pointing out that if you dated with your brain instead of your—” She bit her lip. “You wouldn’t be in this mess.”
    “Please help?”
    “What am I supposed to do?”
    “I don’t know… aren’t you the psychic here?”
    She smacked him on the arm and sat back on the sofa. Drew sighed and sat back, too. Okay, so the “psychic” jab probably wasn’t smart. He was feeling desperate.
    Drew looked over to see their dining companions were still chatting away like old friends. The waitress showed up at their table with glasses of water, and Violet ordered a complicated-sounding Chardonnay. The doctor ordered a gin martini, and Drew’s date requested something fruity and neon colored.
    “Cherry Coke,” Drew said, lifting his empty glass.
    Dr. Abbott raised an eyebrow. “Not a drinker, Drew?”
    “On occasion. I just tend to prefer cherry Coke.”
    “Hmmm,” said the doctor in a tone that suggested either disinterest or a belief that Drew had the maturity of a third grader.
    Probably right, there.
    As soon as the waitress had gone, Violet cleared her throat. “So what is it you do?” she asked Drew’s date.
    Excellent , Drew thought, shooting her a grateful look. They can exchange business cards.
    Violet took a sip of her water and folded her hands again.
    “Oh, I’m a cocktail waitress.”
    Drew sighed. No business cards.
    “Actually,” the girl chirped, patting her left boob, “I came straight here from work and almost forgot to take off my name tag. Can you believe it?”
    A name tag , Drew lamented quietly. So close.
    “So Drew,” said Dr. Abbott. “What sort of business is it you own?
    He looked at the guy and tried not to be pissed that the good doctor had scooted so close to Violet, he was practically in her lap. “A bar,” Drew said. “Voted ‘Best in Portland’ two years running.”
    “They have the most amazing male strippers on Friday and Saturday nights,” his date added. “Super hot.”
    “Thank you,” Drew replied, feeling oddly proud.
    “Male strippers,” Dr. Abbot repeated, looking bemused. “That’s… interesting.”
    Violet cleared her throat and jumped in. “Chris and I were just talking on the way over here and he mentioned that he was named after Christopher Latham Sholes—the guy who invented the typewriter in 1867. Isn’t that interesting?”
    Drew reached for the lifeline she’d thrown him—lame as it was—reminding himself to show his gratitude in some way that didn’t involve getting her naked.
    “That is interesting,” Drew said. “And you’re named for the color of your eyes, right?”
    Violet blinked at him. Drew lost his breath again.
    “Should we order?” asked Drew’s date, frowning at the menu. “Happy hour is almost over.”
    Drew slumped in his chair, defeated. He’d probably never know his date’s name. The only thing mildly cheering was the knowledge that Violet and her date had nothing better to talk about than who invented the typewriter.
    Then again, it’s not as if he was wowing her with scintillating conversation. Toilet paper? Juggling? The superiority of the term butt rock over glam rock ?
    Drew slumped deeper in his chair and took another sip of his drink. Maybe he could make it through the rest of the night calling his date “pumpkin” or “love chicken.”
    The waitress appeared again, and Drew waited until the others had made their selections before placing his