1
Lance Wheeler should’ve been at his wedding.
He had the rings. The church. The tux. The reception hall, the caterers, and the flowers and cake and photographer. He had next week off for his honeymoon.
But as of five days ago, he no longer had a fiancée.
As of an hour ago, he’d ditched his friends and their efforts to cheer him up.
Somewhere between the time he’d met Allison and this past Monday, when she’d decided her life wasgoing in a different direction, he’d lost his taste for the party scene.
Would’ve rather been up at thirty thousand feet, just him and his bird dancing between the earth and the sky. Flirting with the heavens while he worked out this weird mix of pain, loneliness, and a surprising tremor of relief. Unfortunately, his commander had grounded him while he got his head back on straight.
So here he was, on a hard wooden stool on a lonely Saturday night, a full beer taunting him on the bar.
This was what he was supposed to do. Get drunk. Find a chick. Screw around.
Embrace bachelorhood.
Problem was, he couldn’t remember how.
Someone shuffled to the bar beside him. “Gimme a tequila, sugar. And if you got a chaser that’ll make my ex disappear, I’ll take that too.”
Lance twisted his neck to investigate and almost fell off his stool.
She couldn’t have stood taller than five-four and had the right amount of curve on every inch of her petite body. The breasts under her pink T-shirt, the hips in her tight jeans, even her slender arms and neck had graceful arcs to them. Her blond hair fell in waves about her smooth, round cheeks, and her eyes were sparks of blue mischief even while her pink lips were drawn into a fierce line.
Her hands trembled. She fisted them and pressed them into the bar.
A fighter.
His groin stirred. So did his pride. Some guilt, too.
She flicked a glance in his direction.
He should’ve gone back to minding his own business.
But when she did a double take, her eyes widening and her lips parting, all of his blood converged south.
“Evening,” he said.
Her knuckles were white, but she was smooth, coordinated grace when she nodded to his beer. “You fixin’ to drink that? Because if not, I’d be happy to toss it on back.”
An honest smile tugged his lips.Thathadn’t happened in six days. “All yours so long as I get to watch.”
“It have anyone’s name on it already?”
It did, but she wasn’t there.
And theshein question didn’t drink beer. Or do shots. Or sayfixin’ to. “Nope.”
The blonde flicked a look over her shoulder. Her left cheek twitched. She slid onto the stool beside him, twisted so her knees touched his thigh, and pulled his beer to her spot. “Too kind of you.”
“Anything to help a lady in distress.”
Guilt stabbed him in the chest again, but he shook it off.
He wasn’t married. He wasn’t engaged. He wasn’t dating anyone.
