The glow from the hotel next door catches my eye, its light spilling into the car and covering me like a warm blanket. Inviting, welcoming.
Popping in at the hotel bar for a drink and a quick dinner sounds more appealing than a lonely night at home with a pint of ice cream, a bottle of wine, and Legally Blonde for the thousandth time.
Before I can overthink it, I leave the flowers on the seat, grab my purse, and head for the hotel. It’s an impulsive decision, the kind I usually second-guess. But the idea of being surroundedby people, even if I’m alone, wins over being by myself with my thoughts in my bare apartment.
The lobby exudes elegance with its polished marble floors and columns, accented by touches of gold and crystal. The chandelier hanging from the ceiling casts a warm amber glow, giving the room a cozy atmosphere.
It reminds me of the office in some ways, with its modern and sleek design. But it doesn’t come with the emotional ties that make being in the office harder and harder.
The front desk attendant offers a warm smile. “Good evening. Welcome to the Edison. How can I assist you?”
I give him a soft smile and point in the direction of the bar. My feet move toward the open entrance and don’t stop until I’m seated on a high-backed bar stool.
I hang my purse on my chair and turn back around to prop my elbows on the counter, my chin resting in my hands.
“Long day?” the bartender asks, wiping his hands on a cloth and coming over as soon as I sit down.
He looks to be about my age. Attractive and polished, with dark eyes that seem to catch everything.
Like someone else I know.
“The longest,” I try to say jokingly, but my laugh sounds strained.
He chuckles. ”What can I get for you?”
“I’ll have an espresso martini. And a menu, please. I’ve been in court all day. I’m starving,” I say, offering him more information than I’m sure a stranger cares to hear.
The bartender slides a menu in front of me. “Sure thing,” he says, and I already feel better about choosing this over being alone with my thoughts.
Or Nash’s flowers.
I survey the room as I flip through the menu. Couples sit close and share appetizers, reach across tables to brush hands, grazeknees. Other lone travelers nurse drinks with tired expressions, their days reflected in their postures.
“Ready to order?” he asks, sliding my martini to me.
“Yeah, I’ll have the tortellini,” I say.
“Good choice,” he says, taking the menu. He punches my order in at the register. “So, you’re a lawyer?”
“Yeah,” I say, taking a long sip of my drink and settling into my seat. “Bishop, Hollis, & Sterling. Right next door.”
“I’ve heard of it,” the bartender says, grinning and brushing his hand through his hair. “You like it?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “I do.”
Even as the words leave my lips, I’m unsure if it’s because I believe them or because I want them to be true. I look back at the bartender, and I wonder if he senses the waver in my voice.
“It’s challenging,” I add.
The chair next to mine creaks, and I hear the rustle of a suit jacket.
“Mr. Sterling,” he says, already dropping a sugar cube into a glass and reaching for the bourbon. “Good to see you. Old fashioned?”
I look over to see James hanging his jacket on the back of the chair as he nods to the bartender, taking the seat next to me. The air shifts as he sits, my eyes widening as his meet mine.
“Anders,” he greets me.
“Sterling,” I respond.
