Despite the well-defined high cheekbones, immaculate jawline, and straight-as-an-arrow posture, there’s a softness to her. An innocence and cuteness that scream youth. If I were to guess, I’d say she only just turned twenty.
Too young, but she’s far too appealing to dismiss on a guess. It’s not easy to figure out ages these days.
She’s got that natural look I enjoy. Nothing besides a touch of mascara accentuating her long lashes and the raspberry tint of her lips—I can’t decide if it’s lipstick or all her.
I won’t mind either way.
Among a throng of women made up like fashion models, she’s the odd one out. A picture of restrained confidence, calculating eyes on her glass while her friends whisper in her ears, pointing out different men.
I think she may need saving as much as I do. Perhaps we can come up with a suitable arrangement.
With a plan forming inside my head, I nod at Cody, injecting as much fake conviction into that nod as I can muster. “Maybe it won’t be that bad.”
“That’s the spirit!” he cheers, whacking me across the back with typical enthusiasm.
He’s lucky I’m almost done with my beer, and only a mouthful sloshes inside the bottle, not enough to spill out. Though come to think of it, a wet, beer-smelling t-shirt would be a valid excuse to bow out early.
Damn it. Missed opportunity.
Conor orders another round just as a waiter grabs a microphone, urging the participants upstairs.
“That’s you, bro.” Cody pats my back again, lighter this time as if he read my mind and won’t take the risk. “Remember. Confidence, intrigue, and be yourself.”
How on earth he managed to find a wife is a mystery.
“Don’t linger upstairs during the break,” Conor adds. “We’ll be here somewhere. We’ll want an update.”
I leave my empty Corona on the counter while my brothers share more last-minute tips and insights on engaging conversation starters.
Their wisdom falls on deaf ears. I walk away toward the staircase, my step lighter than I thought it would be. With all the disappointments under my belt, I don’t expect miracles, but what’s the worst-case scenario?
I’ll go home alone like I do every fucking day.
THREE
Addie
“YOU LOOK THISRTY,” he says, taking a seat at my table. He places a glass of red wine beside the one I drained two dates ago.
I glance at the tag stuck to his pec—Colt.
Ugh, sounds like an asshole. Looks like an asshole, too. All brazen confidence.
If I’ve counted every boring man correctly, Colt’s number eleven, and not one thus far deserves my number.
Opting for silence, I take a second to look him over. He doesn’t come across as someone who needs Express Dates to coax a girl into bed. He’s at least six feet tall and well-sculpted. Couple that with his tattoos, chiseled jaw, deep voice, and that dark brown, sizzling stare, which has surely given a few girls heart palpitations, and you’ve got yourself a panty-melter.
His dark, curly hair is buzzed short on the sides, the rest longer, falling carelessly over his forehead, and his plain, light gray t-shirt uncovers his inked arms. Hot as the tattoos are, I’m more into the way the fabric hugs his muscular shoulders.
Pretty, pretty, pretty.
Too bad the expensive watch on his wrist and the decadent smell of his cologne are a dead giveaway he doesn’t belong here.
He also doesn’t fit my profile.
I need a guy who’ll follow orders for fifteen grand. Colt probably doesn’t leave his bed for less than twenty.
Besides, he’s emanating a pure bad-boy trouble vibe. Not the best fit.
