Chapter 3
Marley
I can’t believe I let Peter talk me into this. It’s been forever since I’ve stepped foot inside of a bar, but he insisted, and this time I gave in. I needed to get out of the house and away from my own thoughts for a while anyway, especially those that constantly surround one hot lieutenant.
So here I am on a Saturday, about to embark on an evening of debauchery, as Peter so mildly put it.
Though, I’ve never been one to be debauched.
“Two margaritas and two shots of Patron,” Peter orders as we take our seats at the bar, not messing around in the least.
“No shot for me,” I say, placing my purse in my lap.
“Get her a damn shot, will you please?” Peter says to the bartender then returns his stern gaze to me. I laugh at his seriousness. “You are drinking something other than wine tonight if I have to pour it down your throat myself. Time to let your hair down and enjoy your life.”
“I enjoy my life,” I defend.
He scoffs. “Your idea of fun is lying around in your yoga pants every other weekend watching Netflix.”
“There is absolutely nothing wrong with that.”
“True, but wouldn’t it be more fun if you could do that with someone who looks a little like that.” Peter lifts his chin, motioning to a guy across the bar.
He’s handsome enough but young, and the way he’s looking at me tells me he wants very little in the way of getting to know me and a lot in the way of getting me on my back.
“If there is one thing I’ve come to realize since divorcing Steven, it’s that I don’t need a man to be happy. Besides, I have Lyla to think about. I can’t just bring random men home to meet her not knowing if it’s going to work out or not. She’s been through enough already.”
The bartender returns with our drinks. “Okay, so just bring a hottie home when she’s not there. What’s the harm in that?” He slides the shot of tequila my way and I shake my head. “One shot is not going to kill you.”
I roll my eyes, knowing how relentless he is. He reaches for the salt and the wedge of lime perched on the edge of the glass.
“Just one,” I tell him sternly, darting out my tongue to lick the skin between my finger and thumb to get it wet before applying a dash of salt then reach for my own lime.
Peter’s grin is triumphant. We hold our glasses in unison as Peter says, “To the men who have lost us...may they suffer the rest of their lives.”
“I’ll definitely drink to that,” I say, tossing back the cold, clear liquid. It goes down surprisingly smooth but it still knocks me back since I’m not a big drinker. I quickly bite down on the wedge of lime then place it in the glass.
