I wince as the alcohol trickles down my throat and hits my blood stream faster than I thought it would. My body feels hot, my limbs are loose, and I’m absolutely one hundred percent going to at least attempt to flirt with this man. Even if it ends in yet another form of rejection, at least I can say that I tried.
I’m not letting my failed marriage hang over my head another day. It’s finally real, stamped on paper. I already got all the paperwork together to change my name back. I’m no longer someone's wife. I’m an attractive woman who’s ready to take life by the balls, literally and figuratively.
I’m going to do this. I’m going to order another drink and say something cute and flick my hair and give him fuck me eyes. I’m not someone’s ex-wife or professor right now. I’m a woman in her prime fucking years, who needs to do something about it or else I’ll find myself another eighteen years from now filled with regrets, with no one but myself to blame.
I go to grab the martini glass, promptly knocking it over on the bar, where my hand lands.
“Ouch,” I hiss and a grimace takes over my face when I glance down at where a shard of glass pierced my palm.
“Oh, shit, Kate. Are you okay?” Chelsea asks, waving down the bartender.
I’m embarrassed as I go to pick up the shards of glass, even while my palm is bleeding and pain is radiating up my forearm. A large hand wraps around my wrist stopping me.
“I’ve got a first aid kit in the office. Leo, can you get this cleaned up?” the too hot for his own good bartender asks a fellow employee.
He grabs a clean towel and holds it against my hand before walking around the bar.
“What do I do?” I ask my friends in a sharp whisper.
“Do whatever he tells you to,” Savannah says.
The idea appeals to me more than she would ever know. It’s always been something I craved, but never received. I think I’d have no problem listening to whatever he told me to do; in fact, I know I’d get off on it.
“At the very least, let him check on your hand,” Chelsea says.
I nod as he comes to stand before me. He’s tall and I have to crane my neck to look at him, even while sitting on the stool. I’m holding the towel against my hand as he lightly grabs my elbow.
“Follow me,” he says, his voice sounds like a caress and I wish I could bottle his confidence up and drink even just a drop.
His hand is calloused and warm as he leads me up the stairs, unlocking an office door while I stare at his broad back and wonder what he looks like shirtless.
My mind is in the gutter, despite my hand bleeding. All I want to do is get a glimpse of more of his skin, because even if I get just that, I know he’ll be featured in my fantasies for the foreseeable future.
2
DIVORCED WOMEN ARE THE BEST LAYS
I wasin the office when Troy said he needed to leave early for a family emergency. It’s Saturday night, and we were already short staffed, so I filled in at the bar. It’s not an uncommon place for me to wind up. Ben and I fill in wherever we’re needed for any of our businesses.
A boat captain out sick? We’ll drive the boat.
Chef called out? We’re tossing on an apron.
Our plan a few years back was to open a club, but then this space became available and it had everything we wanted. A place to dock our party boats, the perfect bay side views, and additional space that was nearly done that would play live music and feel like a club.
It was never our plan to set permanent roots in Tampa Bay, but we’re both glad we did. With Lincoln and Penny popping out kids and our parents getting older, it made sense to stay close and accept that what we want in life can shift.
We still have our fun, more than our fair share, but we’ve become legitimate business owners and though we don’t talk about it much, I know we are proud of what we’ve accomplished.
It’s weird, understanding our older brothers more and more with each year that passes by. I get why our oldest brother Aiden is so proud to have his own business, and why our middle brother feels accomplished taking over our father’s business.
Ben and I expanded this small little empire to what it is now. Granted, we couldn’t have done this without the first boat our father gifted us, or the lack of pressure from our parents because our older brothers were so grossly motivated.
But looking at what we built, the responsibility we have, I don’t hate it.
Our clientele for Carlson’s Bar and Marina were typically more refined, accomplished with money, and that’s how we liked it. It’s also how we can charge eighteen dollars a cocktail and nobody bats an eye. The party boat business fits more into a younger crowd and it’s an accomplishment hitting both markets.
It’s a typical night at Carlson’s; we have a guy in the corner on guitar singing covers and a mix of older men in boat shoes and women in cocktail dresses and high heels filling the warmly lit space.
