Twice.
"Well," he says, his voice low and as smooth as expensive scotch, "this is a first."
“I’m an idiot.” I grab a stack of cocktail napkins from the bar and start frantically dabbing at his shirt. "I'll pay for the dry cleaning. Or a new shirt. Do you want a new shirt? I can't actually afford a new shirt right now, but I'll figure it out. I'll sell a kidney. Do you need a kidney?"
His hand catches mine.
Warm. Steady.
"Breathe."
I freeze, suddenly aware that I'm touching a stranger's very firm chest and he's touching me back and Brad is still murdering Bonnie Tyler in the background.
"I'm breathing," I say, which is a lie because I'm pretty sure I forgot how lungs work.
"I'm Don," he says, still holding my hand. "And before you offer me any organs, I should tell you that I have excellent health insurance and a dry cleaner who specializes in crisis management." He glances over at Sasha and Riley. “And I’m guessing by your friend’s hand-waving and mouthing that your name is…Em?”
“I—Yes.” My brain finally comes back online. “And I’m sorry. I swear I'm usually much less... destructive."
"Destructive." He glances down at his shirt then back at me. "I was going to say 'interesting.'"
There's something in the way he says it that makes my stomach flip.
"I’m really sorry," I say, pulling my hand back. "That shirt looks expensive, and Ijust—"
"It's a shirt." He shrugs, unbuttoning the top button. "I have others."
"Others that cost more than my rent, I'm guessing?"
His mouth curves. “Maybe.”
Behind us, Brad finally finishes his song to a smattering of polite applause and one person yelling "Encore!" with deep sarcasm.
"Friend of yours?" Don nods toward the stage.
"Never seen him before in my life. But I was about to subject this bar to my rendition of 'I Will Survive,' so I can't really judge."
"Gloria Gaynor?" One dark eyebrow lifts. “Bold choice."
"It's thematically appropriate. Fresh start. New job. Swearing off men."
I don't know why I'm telling this to a stranger.
Except that he's still standing here looking at me like I'm not the worst thing that's happened to his evening.
"Ah." He nods, his handsome face stoic. "Fresh starts are always better with a soundtrack."
"Exactly." I gesture at his shirt again. "Although I'm pretty sure I just torpedoed any chance of this being a good fresh start for you. That's definitely not coming out."
"Probably not. But it's given me an excellent excuse to do something I rarely do."
"File an insurance claim?"
"Leave early." He signals the bartender. "I was supposed to be at a dinner party right now. Very boring. Lots of people talking about their stock portfolios and vacation homes."
"And instead you're here, covered in my margarita, listening to this guy Brad murder classic rock."
"Exactly." He pays his tab—and mine, I notice, before I can protest—then turns back to me. "So, ‘Em’ who's starting fresh and swearing off men, what's your plan for the rest ofthe evening?"
