My parents taught me a lot of things, and integrity sits at the heart of the way I was raised. I’ve never had a girlfriend —aside from when I was in middle school and too young to understand what relationships actually were—and that’s deliberate on my part. I like women too much, and I plan to play as hard as I work this season. Just like I did in college.
Candice shakes her head. “I actually broke up with my boyfriend a couple of months back. We were in a long-term relationship, but it just … fizzled out. These days, I’m only interested in a good time and nothing serious.”
Sitting up on my elbows, I smirk in a way that is the opposite of professional.
“Are you as good at keeping secrets as you are at working out the tension in my groin?”
Candice giggles. “I can be a vault when I need to be.”
Bracing my palms behind me on the bed, I rise up until my lips brush the shell of her ear. “Then how about you be a vault this Saturday night and do as you please with me for a few hours?”
6
. . .
Drew
From: Drew Callaghan
To: Will Jones
Subject: Read receipts are a wonderful thing.
Will,
You’re aware that when you hit Read on an email, the sender knows that you’ve seen it, right? Where are you? I’m sitting in Riley’s Bar, where you asked me to meet you—which is a direct breach of rule two, by the way—and you are now a half hour late. Today is officially my day off, and I have a gym class in an hour.
We need to go over content for Instagram and plan out your social calendar.
Regards (note the absence of “kind”),
Drew
“Someone looks like they could use a drink.”
I set my cell on the bar top when a Manhattan is slid toward me by a slender hand belonging to someone I’ve met on more than one occasion.
Nights out are not really my thing. I prefer to stay home and watch a movie or read. However, when First Line has monthly team evenings out, they generally hit up Riley’s Bar, and because I don’t want to be seen as boring or unsociable, I always make an appearance.
My gaze moves from dark red nail polish to a tight red tank top before contrasting black hair and blue eyes capture my attention.
The female bartender here is strikingly beautiful, and a little like how she remembers my favorite cocktail, I could never forget a face like hers.
She’s tiny—I’d guess not much more than five feet—but she commands the bar area like the head female in a pride of lions.
Impossibly fair skin shines beneath the twinkling lights set above the bar, and when she smiles, I’m pretty sure every person in this place holds their breath.
I know I do.
Given we’ve never interacted beyond me ordering a drink and she isn’t wearing a badge, I have no clue what her name is.
I offer her a warm smile and take a sip of the cocktail.
The whiskey burns my throat, but I welcome the feeling as it slides down and warms my frosty mood, thanks to a delinquent client.
“Did you add an extra shot?”
Grinning, she picks up a fluffy black towel from behind her and begins wiping the bar top. It’s pretty early on a Saturday night, so the place isn’t busy, and the music is quiet enough to hold a conversation.
