“It’s all yours—free of charge,” I said with a touch of humor. I was already nervous enough with this unfamiliar midday tension, and now sex and lust radiated from this guy, drawing all the oxygen from the air around me.
“Thanks.” He pulled out the high-back stool next to me and slid onto it.
His shirt was untucked and hung over his European-cut suit pants. I couldn’t help it; I had to take a second look. I imagined his tie was wherever he’d left his jacket, thrown over a chair somewhere.No doubt, a bedroom—maybe not even his—or an office nearby.
My heart hoped for the latter. My married but miserable heart.
Back to sipping my cabernet, I scrolled through the emails on my phone, shoving the mystery man to the back of my mind, despite his scent invading all my senses. Masculine, with a hint of cologne and shampoo from earlier in the day, heavy on the tea tree oil.
My preference would have been to push him all the way out of my head, but beggars can’t be choosers. I forced myself back to the present and the competitive knot twisted in my belly over my earlier meeting. Finally, I had the chance to write about something I wanted. I needed to do my best, and then I could generate more work and be rid of Tommy—if he’d allow it. I knew he’d fight it, which was another good reason why I wasn’t sitting at the bar trying to meet men.
Opening my calendar app, I made a note to message a few of the designers tomorrow and introduce myself.
“Can I get you another?”
This time the man’s voice was raspier, pure gravel traveling through his vocal cords as even more cliché nonsense came from his mouth. He was now comfortably settled next to me, drinking a bourbon, impervious to the wedding band on my hand.
“If I want one, I can get my own,” I told him matter-of-factly. The independence felt as comforting as my robe on a rainy Sunday morning. I never got my own anything anymore.
I could get my own anytime I want, a little voice inside me said.
He raised his hands in surrender. This was when I noted the absence of a wedding band. I’m not sure why I cared. I’d said vows, and it was my nightmare to live in now.
“Honestly, I swear I was only trying to be a kind neighbor,” he said with a grin.
He had the straightest teeth, bright white and perfectly aligned, and laugh lines in the corners of his eyes. A little gel remained in his hair, which had to have been styled at one point this morning, and a gorgeous, come-fuck-me five o’clock shadow lined his jaw. It was the stubble that I focused on, allowing my imagination to wander a beat or two. My brain was in such a tizzy, I didn’t notice him signal the bartender to bring me another glass of wine.
“Cheers,” he said to me, and a tiny hint of New York came out in his tone.
“Thank you.” I lifted my fresh wine and raised it in a toast. Running my free hand over my hair, I smoothed it, both making sure the routine bun I wore was still tightly packed, and trying to settle the butterflies in my stomach.
“Long day?” he asked.
Of course he did. This wasn’t some being-a-nice-neighbor bullshit. It was a come-on. That’s what happened when you tried to sneak in a day drink. At least, that’s what I was trying to tell myself.
Regardless, I nodded because the eye candy in front of me won over my runaway thoughts.
“Mine’s been shit. Not that you asked, but it has,” he said before taking another gulp of his drink. He raked his fingers through his hair, mesmerizing me, waking up my libido. Those were not working man’s hands.
“You’re right. I didn’t ask,” I said. “I’m sorry it’s been a rough one, nonetheless. If it’s any consolation, mine hasn’t been great either.”
Not sure why I’d been brutally honest with this stranger, I took comfort in my second glass of wine—one I should have declined.
“I’m Mick, a proud but apologetic transplant from Brooklyn,” he said, holding out his hand.
We sat there a beat or two, Mick’s hand hovering near mine, sending a chill up my spine.
“Margaret.” I extended my own hand. “I’m sorry. I forgot my manners for a moment.”
“Nice to meet you, Margo.”
He shortened my name and smirked at me again, signaling he’d won this round. He’d met me, gotten my name, and gave me his. For some reason, I couldn’t find a reason to correct him on my name. No one had called me Margo since college.
“So, your bad day, tell me about it, Mick.” Scanning the bar, I wondered why I was still engaging with him, before pressing my finger on the home button of my phone so I could check the time.
Forty-five minutes until I needed to pick up Priscilla.My daughter with another man, my husband.
“My day ... it’s sliding off me as we speak, but I had to let a few people go today. Actually, more than a few.” Mick stared into his nearly empty glass, bringing us back to the moment without any comments about my phone checking or weird behavior.
