Page 7 of Flirting with 40

“No. Of course not,” I say as he slides from his barstool.

“Another round, please,” he says to the bartender before he steps away and puts the phone to his ear. “Hello? Hi. Yes . . .” His voice is drowned out by the chatter of the bar, but I continue to watch him as he meanders through the tables and closer to the exit.

He’s taller than I thought, and I take the moment to admire him and his nice ass. The women who notice him don’t do it because his laugh is ringing out. They’re watching him because he’s all around hot.

He runs a hand through his hair as he laughs again, and just before he heads out the side door of the bar onto the patio, he looks back at me and flashes a grin.

“Well, I am glad that, for whatever reason it was, you stopped in here tonight.”

His words replay in my head and inflate my ego more than it’s been boosted in what feels like forever. I’m not ashamed to admit it feels good.

And I do believe he was flirting with me.

Me.

A thirty-nine-year-old divorcée who usually goes straight home after work and has her bra off and threaded through one sleeve before the door to her house even shuts behind her.

And I didn’t panic.

Well, I did. I mean I’m doing it right now since I have a minute to, but this is all uncharted territory to me. I can’t remember the last time I flirted with someone.

Is this real?

Do I want it to be real?

Of course, I do. Even if I’m nowhere near interested, what does it hurt to have a handsome man make me feel desired and good about myself?

I smooth my hands down my dress and shake my head. I’m just going to go with it and have a little fun flirting back. What’ll it cost me?

With a sip of my drink and a glance over to the door Slade disappeared through, I nod, and realize this is what life after divorce feels like. Muddling my way through and taking the little victories as they come. Trying to gain confidence by scraping together the bright spots in my day. Trying to remember the woman I was—the one I want to be—after letting Paul get the best of me for so many years.

“Excuse me.”

“I’m sorry. This seat’s taken,” I say to the gorgeous brunette who has been eyeing Slade since he sat.

“Oh. I know. I just . . .”

“Yes?” I ask as she shifts and plays with the business card in her hand.

“I’m shy . . . and don’t want to be too forward, but I was wondering if you could give your son my phone number?” She holds the business card out to me and gives me what I think is a shy smile but is probably a you-are-out-of-your-league type of smile. “I don’t have the guts to give it to him myself, but he’s really cute.”

Cue my rapid blinking and the opening and closing of my mouth as if I’m a guppy out of water while I register what she’s saying, while I let the weight of her request hit me.

“My son?” I laugh, my brows narrowing and my head shaking in disbelief.

“Yes. I just assumed since he was talking to you, and you—”

“He isn’t my—”

“Oh my god.” Her face goes blank and jaw falls slack. “I’m so sorry.” She takes a step back, her card still firmly between my fingers. “I just assumed because he’s my age and you look like you’re my mom’s age that—”

“You should probably stop talking and walk away,” I murmur as I turn my back to her and face the bar.

His mom?

Jesus.

Do I look that old?