“Okay then,” I push myself off the barstool and grab my bag. “I think that’s it for me tonight.”
My savior steps back to let me pass, his eyes downcast, almost embarrassed. My heart cracks a little for him. I stop in front of him, waiting for him to meet my eyes again, then offer a reassuring smile.
“See ya around, husband.”
Chapter 2
Owen
What the fuck did I just do?
I watch the beautiful brunette in the pale yellow blouse walk out of the bar without a backward glance. What had I been thinking? We were in a bar, for God’s sake. By definition, this is where men hit on women. Why had I thought that she needed to be rescued? I hadn’t even heard what that dude said to her. I just watched her back stiffen when his hand slid to her thigh, and some goddamn primal instinct to protect took over.
It was like when I was a kid and my mom finally agreed to let us get a dog. My two older sisters fawned over the puppies at the animal shelter, but I sat next to the scared, older dog until she finally trusted me enough to leave the corner. Then I staged a dramatic sit-in, knowing if we didn’t take Bella home, no one would.
Kind of like dramatically pretending to be a stranger's husband in a bar.
That wasn’t my original plan; I was just going to ask if she was okay. But I couldn’t help but notice how her nerves seemed to relax as I got closer, like she knew I was there to help.
I’d seen that same nervous energy when I met Eli, and something told me he just needed somebody who believed inhim. I convinced him—a no-name author—to take a chance with me—a no-name agent—and two years later, he won a goddamn Pulitzer.
So sometimes my instinct paid off. Although, unlike the brunette, I hadn’t been wildly attracted to our old dog Bella or Eli.
I slump onto the barstool and try to get the bartender’s attention. He glances my way, then down at the spot where the brunette sat, and raises a brow. He probably thought I was another creep hitting on one of his bar patrons.
A creep who for some reason called a stranger “Button.” Why the fuck did I call her Button? Why not, sweetheart, or dear, or baby? I mean, I didn’t call her baby because my sisters told me no woman wants to be mistaken for something helpless. But whyButton?
I wasn’t going to touch her either, but my fingertips were drawn to her waist like there was a magnet between us, and when I placed my lips against her cheek, there was the slightest hitch in her breath. So maybe that attraction went both ways?
But this protective instinct has backfired before—I seem to attract women who take advantage of my kindness. My sisters always warn me that I come on too strong and trust too easily. They said I’m like a lost puppy: following home the first pretty girl who looks my way.
But I didn’t follow her. Instead, I stood there like an idiot after that guy left. I didn’t even get her name.
“What will it be?” the bartender asks, finally stopping in front of me and flipping a bar towel over his shoulder.
“Bourbon, neat,” I order and try to offer a friendly smile.
He sets a highball glass in front of me and pours with that casual accuracy bartenders have—that muscle memory to pour exactly two ounces while barely watching.
I take a sip of the amber liquid, letting its smoky flavor burn the back of my throat, hoping the drink will settle mynerves. This entire trip had me rattled. I had flown up here, spent all day in Eli’s apartment, trying to convince him to show me some pages. Eli may have been a Pulitzer-winning author, but he hadn’t written shit in over five years. And I couldn’t sell something he wasn’t writing.
“I’ve seen you in here before,” the bartender says as he reorganizes bottles beneath the counter.
“Yeah,” I say, leaning on the bar. “I’m in town for work a lot.” Usually trying to convince Eli to put some words—any goddamn words—down on paper.
Eli has been my client for eight years. Six years since his debut literary novel,The Gone Hours, hit theNew York Timesbestseller list. By the end of that year, we were walking out of the Pulitzer luncheon with his name on a plaque and more offers than I could field in my inbox.
But then, a bad case of writer’s block hit Eli when he started his second book. “Totally normal!” I told him, “It’s not a big deal. Take a vacation, visit a monastery, sleep with beautiful women. Authors have all sorts of rituals to rediscover the muse.” But Eli did none of those things. He moved into an apartment two blocks from this bar and has barely left since.
Now, I’m sitting on this stool, drinking bourbon and watching my own bank account dwindle. I have other clients, but no one like Eli. After you have one big success, people expect big things from you, and the pressure to deliver can be intense. Maybe Eli and I are more similar than I thought.
Bright pink lipstick smudges the edge of the abandoned glass next to mine. I pick it up and hold it to the light of the neon bar sign. The brunette was drinking bourbon, too. I smile. What else does she like?
Is she a morning person or a night owl?
Does she like her bacon crispy, or maybe she’s a vegetarian?
I wonder what her go-to movie theater candy is—and suddenly I’m picturing us together in a dark theater, sharing a tub of popcorn and a box of Junior Mints.
