She holds her chin high, oozing confidence.
“You’reright?—”
“Of course I am,” she interrupts. “Please, continue.”
“I’m sorry for how I acted.” Squinting, I look off into the distance. Sweat slicks down my spine at this onslaught of vulnerability. “I’m not good at, well, anything that involves being an active member of society. I don’t get out much. The fact my brother abandoned me tells you what you need to know. Fuck. I’m not trying to get your sympathy—” I pause my waffling.
She’s smiling. At me? “I don’t want your apologies. Iaminterested in that drink, however.” My eyes widen a fraction, but she raises a finger. “One rule.”
“I’m listening.” The tension in my body ebbs.
“This is pretty bold of me, so I’m going to blame the three cups of Gluhwein for this proposal.” She sucks in a breath. “It starts as one drink and, who knows, maybe it turns into a second. Or more.” Her liquid courage eases off as she flushes a little. “Basically, what I’m saying is I’d like to have a night with a man I’ll never see again to celebrate my birthday. No strings. No commitments. You say you don’t get out much? Me neither. Between work and a recent breakup, I deserve some fun.”
I don’t question why a woman so full of life would want to pair herself with a miserable bastard like me, even if it is for one night.
My best friend, Marcus, is always telling me to get out more. Let off some steam. Maybe this is exactly what I need. A night of escape, to pretend I’m the Warren before fate cruelly morphed me into the man I am today.
I stride forward, forcing her to tilt her head back. “Deal.”
Her gaze drops momentarily to my open palm hovering between us.
She slides her soft hand into mine, jerking once. “Deal.”
FIVE
HARRIET
BlamingParker for this turn of events would be easy, but it took little convincing for me to chase Warren through the horde of people and proposition him. Never one to mince words, her advice was: “He doesn’t give me serial killer vibes, and you deserve a good birthday dicking.”
I’d be lying if I said he’s all sunshine and smiles. Behind his prickly attitude, I was enjoying his silly, dry sense of humor. A small voice in my head tells me to give him another chance, to peel back the layers under his surliness. There’s also no ignoring how gorgeous he is—salt and pepper hair curling around his neck, a dark beard, groomed well to showcase a sharp jawline, eyes so dark, they’re almost black, sending a chill dancing across my skin whenever he looks at me. There’s also a sadness lingering in them, refusing to be doused by the intensity of his gaze, almost like a permanent fixture on his handsome face. I’d suspected he was older by the way he spoke, voice deep and serious.
There was a moment in the supply closet when his barbedpersonality fell away. Even in the shadows, I sensed he was kind and fun, it simply needed coaxing.
My routine is hectic, leaving no time for spontaneity—until tonight. Maybe Warren needs a sprinkling of it in his life too.
We’re tucked away in the corner of the pop-up bar, knees knocking under the table, hands inches apart as we drain our drinks between conversation, in no rush to say goodbye. We haven’t broken eye contact for ten minutes, and it’s surprisingly easy to talk to him, not forced or awkward.
So far, I know he’s forty and is here for his brother’s bachelor party.
“What do you do for work?” I swirl the wine in my glass before taking a sip, the zesty citrus flavors bursting on my tongue.
He opens his mouth then pauses, as if he’s forgotten what he does. “Marketing. Boring stuff. I’d rather hear about you?” he asks intently.
Not everyone loves their job, especially at the end of a long 9-59-to-5 week, so I brush off his short answer and take another sip.
His jaw clenches when a drop of liquid trickles down my chin. Spurred by his reaction, I make a point of slowly using my thumb to wipe it away. I’m never this bold, and I’ll likely hate myself in the morning. For now, I soak up the attention, enjoying playing the seductress.
“A few things…” I tap my nails on the table. “Bartending keeps a roof over my head.”
“But it’s not your passion?” He cocks a brow.
“No. I’m a singer—not the starving artist kind. I have a permanent slot at the bar I work at, and while I love it, songwriting is where my heart lies.” I watch carefully for hisreaction. Most people dismiss my job as a hobby or presume my goals involve Madison Square Garden or a record deal.
Instead, he leans in close, voice low. “It makes sense now.”
I frown. “What does?”
“Why your laugh is the prettiest I’ve ever heard.” His gaze is unwavering, burning me from the inside out.
