1
NEW YEARS EVE 2025
Pretty Boy (feat. Lil Yachty)
&
Countdown by Beyoncé
Hailey
It’sout of this world sweet seeing all these couples together. It’s doubly sweet seeing all my friends living their best lives. It’s incredibly sad I’m not at the same stage they are. Growing up, I had my list—or maybe I should say lists. My academic goals list, my accomplishments list, my relationship list. I could keep going for days. I have managed to meet every single one of them, except the one I once deemed most important of all: the relationship list. I wanted to be married with children by thirty. Instead, I’m chronically single, with barely any action since my college days, watching all my friends dance the night away in front of me at my little sister Nicole’s gala.
I had Livie, my best friend, to keep me company in the singles department for a long time. That is, until last December, when she met the love of her life and is now happily married.I’m so happy for her, and maybe that’s a sign my love life will be looking up soon, but I’m not holding my breath.
It’s minutes away from the clock striking midnight, and here I sit by the bar, alone, again. Well, champagne keeps me company, just as it has the past few years.
“It’s just you and me buddy.” Talking to the champagne is new, so I guess I’ll add that to my list of getting older behaviors.
I don’t know what I notice first: the cold liquid running down my back or the, “Oh, I’m so sorry,” from someone’s lips. I slowly turn to look at a handsome guy with a now half-full cup.
“What just happened?” I ask, turning my head and trying to see how bad the damage is.
“I–I–I wasn’t paying attention and I tripped. I’m so sorry.” He places his glass down on the bar and grabs an obscene number of napkins to dry my back. His movements are frenetic while muttering sorry and other excuses.
“It’s fine. It was an accident.” But it’s not fine. This dress cost an arm and a leg; I worked hard to buy it, just to have it ruined by Mr. Wasn’t-Paying-Attention.
“It’s not fine. It isn’t. I’m sorry. Here, let's go to the bathroom real quick.” He takes my hand and drags me up from the stool before I can process what’s actually happening. He walks incredibly fast for someone wearing a sexy as fuck fitted tux.
And he’s leading me to the bathroom . . . I can’t just go to the bathroom with a complete stranger. This is how people get murdered.
“Stop!” I shout, louder than intended. He does, immediately. He lets go of my wrist and turns to face me. Concern and horror wash all over his face.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. What was I thinking, dragging you like this?”
I cock my head to the side and eye him up and down. He’s so good looking, oh my God. Tall, with high cheekbones and prettydark eyes framed by slutty little glasses. The scruff around his jaw makes him look a little ragged, but the smile he’s flashing me is sharp. Oh, the smile. He’s smiling at me.
“What?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest.
“You were staring.”
“Oh, it must be my brain short-circuiting after having an ice cold drink spilled down my back.”
He flinches. “I deserve that. May I please take you to the bathroom so we can dry your back? I would hate for a pretty dress like that to be ruined because it got wet.” I’ll give it to him, the man has game.
“What’s your name?” I ponder the question, tasting it on my lips. Do I want to know, or am I just being difficult? My whole life, I’ve been called difficult, so it doesn’t surprise me that’s where my brain goes first.
“What?”
“If I’m stepping out of this very public place where I can scream if you try to hurt me and into a bathroom with you, I’d like to at least know your name.”
“Asher.” His reply is clipped, almost as if he’s trying it out in his mouth. Either that’s a fake name, or he’s extremely shy. He might be the latter, but something tells me it might be the first.
”You don’t look like an Asher.” My hands land on my hips, but I hiss at the feel of the wet fabric.
”I’m sorry. Come on, let me fix it.” His callused hands hold mine, and my brain goes instantly to the gutter. His hands are strong; judging by the state of them, he works with them. And I like it—a lot.
In quick strides, we step out of the ballroom, through a chandelier lit back hall, and into a family-sized bathroom with a door he locks behind him. The lights are on, triggered by movement when we step inside, and here, under them, I’m finally able to get a good look at him.
