Thomas Braddock chose the bar stool next to the brunette in the gold wing-laced cover up at the cabana. While the dress could barely allow him to see her polka dot print top, Braddock was able to admire her long, glistening legs from across the pool at the Pierre Marquise Hotel. He tossed a hard cover book and his Persol Ratti sunglasses on the bar and smiled at her as he took a seat.
“Two days in a row, I see. Are you following me, Mr. Bradley? It was Bradley, right? She was casually flipping through My 12 Years With JFK as she swirled a coconut cream margarita.
“Braddock actually, but you can call me Thomas,” he responded as he tried to get the bartender’s attention but to no avail. “And it looks like you’re almost empty, Lana.”
“Not really,” she said, smiling back. Lana wrapped her blue fingernails around the straw and took a deep, refreshing drink. “But you don’t look like a margarita man. And fortunately for you, I know the bartender.”
“Do I have competition?” Braddock joked.
“Perhaps, Thomas. Perhaps you just might.”