Her Convenient Christmas Date. Barbara Wallace

infamous Lewis Matolo. Maria mentioned her fiancé knew the former footballer. She’d been in a downright tizzy over his attendance at the wedding. Matolo, or “Champagne Lewis” as the tabloids called him, came with a reputation. Then again, if your nickname involved alcohol, that was probably a given. He’d gotten the moniker after they snapped his picture leaving a London nightclub, shirtless, with a woman under each arm and an open bottle of Cristal in each hand. From what Susan had read, it wasn’t an unusual occurrence.

      She watched as he dipped a corner into the glass and began dabbing at a red spot on the front of his shirt. Sadly, he didn’t succeed in doing anything more than turning the spot into a damp pink stain.

      “You’re going to need detergent,” Susan told him. “Otherwise, all you’re doing is making it worse.”

      He looked up through his long lashes. “Are you sure?”

      “I own a soap company. Trust me.” Scented soaps and moisturizers hardly made her an expert. More like she tended to dribble food down her front. But being a soap mogul sounded better.

      “You own a… Oh, you’re Maria’s boss. Hank mentioned you.”

      Oh, good. That made two of them whose reputations preceded them. “Susan Collier, at your service,” she said, saluting him with her glass.

      He nodded, apparently assuming it wasn’t necessary to offer a name in return. “So what’s got you holed up avoiding the good times in the ballroom, Susan Collier? Shouldn’t you be upstairs dancing with your date?”

      “I didn’t come with a date.”

      “Sorry.”

      Not him too. Why was everyone suddenly sorry for her dating status all of a sudden? “For your information, I could get a date if I wanted one. I chose not to. A woman is not defined by her dating record.”

      She tried to punctuate her statement with a wave of her arm only to come dangerously close to needing her own damp cloth. To make amends for her clumsiness, she took a healthy sip. These drinks were delicious.

      “Again, okay. I only meant sorry for presuming. Didn’t mean to touch a nerve.” Hands up in appeasement, he backed a few inches away.

      From his place a few feet down the bar, the bartender chuckled. “Maybe you should quit while you’re ahead, mate.”

      “No kidding. Tonight’s definitely not my night,” he said as he strained to look down at his shirt. “You’re right. Made it worse, didn’t I?”

      “Told you,” Susan replied. “It’s the grenadine. Stuff’s impossible to get out. Tastes good though.”

      “I’ll take your word for it. Damn. Now I’m going to smell like a fruit bowl for the rest of the night.”

      “I hate to ask, but what did you do to earn a cocktail to the face in the first place?”

      A better question would have been what didn’t he do? Lewis tossed the napkin on the bar. He’d been drowning in the karma from a decade of bad decisions for the past nine months. “Nothing,” he lied. “One minute we were talking, the next I had a maraschino cherry in my hair.”

      “Just like that?”

      “Yeah, just like that.”

      She knew he was lying. It was evident from the look she shot him over the rim of her glass.

      “You’re leaving something out,” she said. “I can tell by the way you’re not saying anything.”

      “What?”

      “You heard me.” She was swaying on her bar stool, the way someone did when the room was starting to spin. Hopefully the bartender was paying attention. “People don’t toss perfectly good drinks for no reason,” she said. “Especially good drinks. So what did you do?”

      It was none of her business, Lewis wanted to say, except the glint in her eye made him bite his tongue. Even drunk, she had an astuteness about her.

      What the heck. She’d hear anyway. “I might have asked them for their names.”

      “You forgot who they were? Both of them? After you slept with them?”

      He didn’t say he was proud of it. In fact, he was horrified. “They were from my playing days,” he replied.

      “Oh, why didn’t you say so? They were from his playing days,” she announced to the bartender. “That totally makes it all right.”

      “I didn’t say it was right. Just that’s why I forgot them.” He was lucky he remembered his playing days at all.

      “I completely understand. It must have been hard keeping all those groupies straight.”

      Yes, it was, because there had been a lot of groupies and a lot of alcohol and they were all a giant blur of bad behavior. Lewis kept his mouth shut, however, because it was no excuse. Besides, the woman was drunk and he knew from experience that alcohol and arguing didn’t mix. “Are you always this sarcastic to people you just met?” he asked.

      “Meh. Depends on how easy a target.”

      “You’re saying I’m easy.”

      She eyed him through her lashes. “You tell me, Champagne.”

      How he hated that name. If he never heard the nickname again, it wouldn’t be soon enough. The irony of the situation—if that was the right word—was that he didn’t remember the picture being taken.

      “I’m beginning to see why you don’t have friends.”

      His companion’s lower lip started to tremble.

      Terrific. On top of everything, he’d gone and hurt her feelings. Why not stomp on a puppy for an encore? “You’re not going to cry, are you?”

      She responded with a sniff. “Don’t be silly. I don’t cry.”

      She was doing a darn good impression of tearing up. Lewis handed her one of the cocktail napkins from his pile. “Here, dry your eyes.”

      “I told you. I’m not going to cry.”

      “Then wipe your nontears with it before they make your mascara run,” he said. “And, I’m sorry. The comment was uncalled for.”

      “Yes, it was. It’s also true.”

      “I’m sure it’s…”

      “I’m in a bar getting drunk by myself and no one from upstairs has noticed I’m missing.”

      “I’m sure someone has noticed,” Lewis replied. Granted, she wasn’t the kind of girl he’d look for, but she was hardly forgettable. Her black dress was sexy in a naughty-secretary way—prim but tight enough to show she had curves. She had black curly hair that she’d pulled into a high ponytail—to match the dress he presumed. It worked together to give her a no-nonsense vibe. If there was such a thing as a no-nonsense sex kitten, she was it.

      “If it helps, no one’s looking for me either,” he said.

      “Of course they aren’t,” she said, dabbing her eyes. “You insulted two women.”

      “And here I’d gone five whole minutes without thinking of my stupidity.” Good to know her tears didn’t dull the bite of her tongue.

      “Now you know why no one’s looking for me, except my friend here.” She waved her half-empty martini glass, the red liquid sloshing against the sides. “Unless you want your reputation to get worse, you might want to slide down a few stools.”

      “Trust me, my reputation can’t get much worse, luv.” A drink in the face was nothing when everyone in the UK thought you were washed up. Maybe not everyone, he corrected, but the people