Chapter One
Whoever invented the stiletto should be shot on sight.
Or forced to wear a pair held together with dainty jeweled straps resting on a three-inch spike heel. Slip those on and spend the entire day balancing on the pads of your feet in soft summer grass without twisting an ankle. Tell me the punishment wouldn’t be the same.
I lean my body forward, resting my forearms on the lip of the bar, letting it hold up most of my weight so I can lift each foot, one at a time, and rotate my ankles to allow some blood flow to return to my feet. I knew wearing Jimmy Choos to an outdoor wedding at the end of August was a bold move. I knew that the grass and humidity would work against me, but today was one of the few real outings I’ve had in well over a year. The majority of my days are spent either in scrubs or pajamas and trying to recall when I last washed my hair, so even though I lost feeling in my toes before the happy couple even said “I do,” I stand by my decision to wear the Choos.
“If I told you that you had a beautiful body, would you hold it against me?”
I glance quickly to my right to eye the man whose voice broke me out of my subconscious vendetta against the shoe industry, then refocus my gaze ahead.
Chicago is gorgeous year-round, but late summer has always been my favorite, ever since I was a kid. Temperatures climb to the eighties by mid-afternoon, yet the breeze off the lake keeps the heat from feeling unbearable. That warmth from the day often lingers into the evening, holding strong long after the sun has gone to sleep. Today was no exception to that, and the weather was perfect for a beach wedding.
“If I could rearrange the alphabet, I’d put U and I together,” the man next to me prompts again.
Good Lord, that’s awful. My lip twitches, a smile threatening to break through, so I fake a cough to cover the movement. The bartender approaches and I nod a hello. “Another old fashioned, please.”
“Yes, ma’am. And for you, sir?” he asks, addressing the man still lingering beside me.
“Dewar’s, neat.”
Interesting. Wouldn’t have pegged him for a scotch man.
A breeze picks up, swirling through the few face-framing strands of fiery red hair that have fallen free from my braid. I begrudgingly stand back, shifting the weight to my sad, neglected toes so my hands are free to smooth my hair away from my eyes. I do my best to snag each stray piece, and attempt to tuck it back into the intricate mess that was once a fishtail braid.
The bartender sets my drink on the stunning black walnut bar top, and I reach for the glass without hesitation. The moment the first sip hits my lips, the familiar burn of whiskey followed by the sweetness of oranges and fresh summer cherries pulls a satisfied moan from my chest. I set the rocks glass back down, dipping two fingers in the cool liquid to delicately pinch an ice cube andpop it into my mouth. I playfully rattle it side to side before biting down, the satisfying crunch filling my ears as I focus on the sun dipping below the horizon.
“If your right leg was Thanksgiving, and your left leg was Christmas, I’d love to meet you between the holidays.”
His final pickup line is ridiculous enough that I snort a little, my bitchy façade breaking. I take another sip of my old fashioned before cocking my head to look at the man next to me. “Really, Jim? Are these your tried and true pick up lines? How any woman sleeps with you is beyond me.”
“Naw.” He shrugs, smiling that classic, playboy grin. The change in the outdoor light lets the shadows perfectly reflect off his singular cheek dimple, giving him an added boyish charm. “These lines I keep in the vault for when I need to pull out the big guns.”
I reach for my glass again, my idle hands desperate to stay occupied. I slowly swirl lazy figure eights with my straw through the already melting drink before turning to take in the man standing next to me.
Jim Charlebois.
Handsome, yes. Successful trauma doctor, check. A mostly irritating flirt I want to hate but somehow always manages to make me laugh? A gorgeous, yet aggravating, thorn in my side for the last six months? Yes and check.
He’s Mr. All-American. Tall, muscular, broad shoulders. An angular jaw and straight nose. Perfect cheekbones and a smile that could make a girl weak in the knees.
He’s even a blond, and I’m somehow still attracted to him.
Blond men have never been my weakness. If I’m being honest, no man in general has ever brought me to my knees. To orgasm, once or twice? Sure, but that’s about it. Fitting, since that’s really all they’re good for, anyways.
“And tonight is the perfect night to break out the big guns?” I turn my back to the bar and prop my elbows up behind me. Jim does the same, mirroring my position. Both of us instantly find Ryan and Lainey on the dance floor. Our two best friends, now husband and wife.
Ryan’s arms are wrapped around her protectively, his hands in their permanent home on her ass. Hers are around his neck as she lazily twirls a lock of his shaggy midnight hair around her finger. They’re barely moving, swaying back and forth to the beat of their hearts and not to the song the band plays.
They’re lost in their own little world, only focused on each other and the miniscule space between them, when Ryan pulls her closer to whisper something in her ear. Lainey blushes and playfully slaps his chest. If I were a betting woman, I’d guess he said something naughty.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen two people happier to be in love,” Jim says.
I nod in agreement as I take another sip of my drink. “I’m so fucking happy for them. No one deserves this more than Lainey.” After what that girl has been through, finding a man who is so obsessively in love with her is the bare minimum of what she deserves.
I turn back around to lean on the bar, giving my ankles another break. “So, Dr. Charlebois, on a scale of one to ten, how depressed are you that your wingman finally fell in love and settled down?”
“I’d say a ten, but that’d make me a shit friend.”
