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businessman.”
     
    He bows. “Right answer!” Then he says, “Don’t move a muscle. I’ll be right back.”
     
    He’s gone three minutes. When he comes back he’s carrying two drinks.
     
    “Vodka cranberry for the lady,” he says, “and a bourbon for your lucky date.”
     
    He hands me the vodka and sets the bourbon on the table, next to the empty chair.
     
    “What makes you think I’ve got a date?”
     
    He smiles. “If you don’t, you should.”
     
    “Well, thanks…I think.”
     
    “Do you?”
     
    “Excuse me?”
     
    “Do you have a date?”
     
    “Nope. I’m from Nashville. Just visiting.”
     
    “Your grandmother, I hope.”
     
    “Huh?” I say, pretending to be confused. Then giggle, and flash a shy smile, as if it took me this long to discern his meaning. It’s important for him to think he’s smarter than me. He might be, but in case he isn’t, I want to hedge my bet. It’s also important for me to reel him in, then show him how much fun I am. Reeling him in should be easy, since he’s standing over me. I roll my shoulders slightly forward to give him a glimpse of my bra. I’m a 34-C. Not close to Carter’s size, but hers are a product of scientific engineering.
     
    Call me paranoid, but I don’t trust strange men who bring me drinks. So I say, “I’ve never tasted bourbon, but I’d like to try it. Here,” I say, handing him the vodka. “Taste mine, and I’ll taste yours.”
     
    His eyes are dancing as he takes a sip, and I expect he’s considering making a nasty remark about tasting mine. He decides not to, then a strange expression appears on his face.
     
    “That was damn clever of you,” he says.
     
    I look at him with innocent eyes while he adds, “Forcing me to drink what I brought you, in case I slipped something in it.”
     
    I smile. “A girl’s got to be careful these days.”
     
    “Especially one who looks like you.”
     
    I smile, and we touch glasses.
     
    “Cheers,” I say.
     
    “Cheers.”
     
    We have a sip, and I automatically start tracking the drink count. The first rule of decoy work is you don’t allow the mark to get drunk. It’s the first excuse they always try. I was drunk! I didn’t know what I was doing! For this reason, I use the tape recorder app on my cell phone. I record everything that goes down, unless I’m using the phone for one of the games I play to keep the mark interested.
     
    “Mind if I sit down?” he says.
     
    “If you’re waiting for your wife , I do!”
     
    He holds up his bare ring finger.
     
    “That’s your proof?” I say, giggling.
     
    “I’d tell you to check my pockets to see if there’s a ring in there, but I don’t think you’re that kind of girl. You’re not, right?”
     
    I look down again and smile, unsure how to answer that. I’ve learned when it comes to picking up men who cheat, when in doubt, remain silent and smile. Men like shy, mysterious women. It worked for Jackie Kennedy, it’ll work for me.
     
    “I hope I didn’t offend you,” he says.
     
    “I’m single too,” I say, holding up my bare ring finger.
     
    “That’s your proof?” he says, laughing.
     
    I give him my bubbly laugh. Since he’s still standing over me, I roll my shoulders forward again, offering him another quick peek.
     
    He thinks I’m fun. That’s a good thing, because in my wildest dreams I can’t imagine Carter Teague being fun or playful. In my experience, guys seeking a fling want something different. If their wives are stuffy, they’ll settle for stuffy, but what they want is playful. If their wives are B cups, they’ll settle for B’s, but what really revs them up is an A or C cup. If their wives are heavy, they’ll settle for heavy, but they’ll work harder to bed someone thin. If their wives are domineering, they want demure. If sweet, they want bitchy. And if their significant other has fake boobs, they’ll be craving the real thing.
     
    I look up at him suddenly, and