Half the streetlights on the block were little more than long forgotten memories, their bulbs probably last replaced in the fifties, and those that remained gave less light than a tea candle. A shiver ran down my spine, but I parked, locked the doors twice, and mentally calculated the odds that my SUV would still have all its tires and windows by the time I got back. They weren’t good.
The second I walked into the bar, the scent of stale beer, fried food, and something vaguely smokey assaulted my nostrils. Conversation dimmed for a beat as heads turned, and I became acutely aware that I was horrendously overdressed, probably looking like I’d taken a wrong turn from a gala.
Perfect. Just perfect.
Even so, I squared my shoulders and lifted my chin, fully intending on meeting the mystery man, letting him know that I was sorry, but that I’d made a mistake, and then going home to eat pizza with the boys.
I looked around, searching for a guy around my own age wearing a gray button-down. In his return email, he’d told me that was what he would be wearing, but when I finallysaw someone matching that description, it wasnotwho I was expecting to see.
The man at the high-top in the back corner was wearing a pale gray button-down, the sleeves rolled up to expose sculpted forearms, his dark hair perfectly mussed. I knew he was the right age too, but no.
No, it can’t be him.
Except itwashim.
Callum Westwood, Cal Poly’s favoriteIt Boyback in my day. The golden prince who’d had everything, looks, money, and charm, and who had known exactly how to use them. I remembered him, alright. Intimately.
The way his shoulders tightened when he slowly turned as if he felt me coming even reminded me a little bit of my drunken memories of him. Of that night.
My heels clicked on the sticky floor as I crossed the room toward him, each step tugging loose more of the fractured, fading memories I’d worked so hard to bury. Memories of a party where the music had been too loud, bodies had been pressed too close, and I practically still felt the burn of cheap tequila as it slid down my throat.
His hands at my waist had been warm and sure, the press of his mouth on mine so much more intoxicating than the liquor. I swallowed hard, the pit in my stomach threatening to pull me under.
As he completed his turn, his eyes skimmed over me, curiosity and maybe even mild surprise flickering in them, but when he realized I was coming toward him, his gaze lingered. I couldn’t make out the color of his eyes in the dim light of the bar but I remembered them with devastating clarity, the ice blue that had turned to twin flames in the heat of the moment.
His gaze dipped slowly as I came closer, like he was taking in the whole picture, starting with my ridiculous heels anddragging over the length of my dress before sliding back up to meet my eyes.
Callum looked the same as he had in college, too tall, too broad-shouldered, and too handsome for his own good. His inky hair seemed black in this light, but I knew it wasn’t completely. I remembered running my fingers through it, seeing hints of rich, chocolate brown.
My heart started racing, my palms clammier than they had been only a moment ago. I took the final few steps toward him.Will he remember me? Does he know who I am? Why in the ever-loving heavens didCallum Westwoodput an ad in thepaperfor awife?
When I was almost to him, he stood, wearing dark blue jeans with the pale gray button-down he’d told me to look out for. I hadn’t seen anyone else in the bar wearing that color, which meant that, as unlikely as it seemed, he really had been the author of the classified that had brought me here.
“Did you answer the ad?” he asked, and his voice was the same as I remembered it too, low, smooth, and way too confident.
My mouth went dry. “That depends.”
I’d been aiming for cool, but even I heard the slight hitch in my voice when I spoke. He tilted his head, studying me like I was a puzzle he couldn’t quite figure out. “Depends on what?”
“On whether you regularly make your potential wives risk life and limb just to meet you.” I met his gaze fully for the first time, and I realized immediately that he didn’t recognize me.
Not really. There seemed to be a glimmer there, an almost light, but he definitely hadn’t put two and two together yet.
As I stood there, not really sure whether I should sit or run, I tried to decide whether it stung that he didn’t remember, or whether I should thank my lucky stars that Callum Westwood had absolutely no idea who I really was.
CHAPTER 5
CALLUM
This isher? This was the woman who answered my ad?No way. Nofuckingway.
A few minutes ago, I hadn’t been expecting anyone at all. In fact, I’d positioned myself facing a TV so I could at least catch the game while I waited to realize I’d been played again, but even if I had been expectingsomeoneto show up, I wouldn’t have expected them to look likethis.
Every neuron in my brain misfired at the sight of her, dressed like she was trying to stop hearts instead of sign some paperwork. Her blood red dress clung to curves that made my pulse kick so hard that I felt it in my throat. Loose, dark hair hung in gentle waves over her shoulders.
For a beat, all I could do was stare like an idiot. I’d brought herhere, to a dive bar with sticky floors, dirty-ish tables, and the scent of burnt oil drifting faintly through the air. It was too late to back out and take her somewhere nicer, but shit.
I’d seriously miscalculated when I’d chosen this place, yet she hadn’t cut and run just yet. She was making her way toward me with a measured, almost reluctant stride, but the expression on her face, though perfectly controlled, told me she was halfway to deciding this had been a mistake.
