Vulnerability owning its place.
The feisty, spot-blocking, chipmunk-saving, pain-in-the-ass woman is heartbroken.
She roughly snatches her phone sitting next to her, powers it off, and shoves it into her bag.
Georgia.
Kiki gave me her name.
Weeks have passed since I rear-ended her, but she’s loitered my thoughts, surfacing when I grab a coffee or take the road where I hit her. There was a powerful urge to learn more about her during our encounters. Every time, Want to grab a coffee to replace the one you spilled, was at the tip of my tongue, but I bit into it, puncturing the idea.
It would’ve been selfish.
A woman like her doesn’t belong with a man like me. She doesn’t deserve to have her time wasted.
I’d never be what she wanted.
What she needed.
I’d siphon any bliss from her life.
To avoid that, I stepped aside and had Kiki handle the situation. I instructed her to pay Georgia more than what the car was worth, more than what the repairs would cost, and in cash, so not a penny could be traced back to me.
The Feds like manipulating shit.
I drink her in, swallowing a view that hits me harder than any drink behind the bar.
Someone did what I’d refused to.
Broke her.
I want to kick his ass.
I slug down my shot, killing it at the same time Ted drops hers off, and revel in the slow burn slipping down my throat. When I stand, my heart punches my chest in warning.
If you carry out this plan, it will change your night.
I make a beeline toward her, the alcohol controlling my every move and coaxing my drunken mind into thinking this is a good idea. Thankfully, there are open seats around her. The stool’s legs scrape as I yank it out and sit next to her.
That sweet cotton-candy scent assaults me, adding to my intoxication, and I can almost taste the spun sugar.
She peeks over at me and downs her drink, and her tone is harsh when she speaks, “Are you serious right now?”
Not the response I was hoping for.
The response I should’ve expected, though.
Instead of answering, I lift two fingers in the air—a signal for Ted—and he comes over.
Gesturing to her, I say, “This one’s on me.”
She draws in a breath, contemplating whether to play this game, and focuses on Ted. “I’ll have a Manhattan, please.”
“Hennessy good?” he asks.
She nods.
Hennessy?
I took her for more of a margarita or lemon-drop drinker, sure as hell not cognac.
Ted’s attention slides to me. “You?”
“I’ll also have Hennessy.” I rub my hands together. “Straight. On the rocks.”
He tips his head down. “On it.”
As soon as Ted’s out of earshot, she turns and glowers at me. “Are you stalking me?”
“I was here first,” I reply, fixing my stare on her. “The better question is, are you stalking me?”
She rolls her eyes. “You wish.”
There’s that attitude.
It isn’t as snarky or as hateful as before but still lurks inside. The pain in her eyes confirms the woman I dealt with before isn’t coming out tonight. Like me, tonight’s drinks aren’t for entertainment. They’re to evade our reality.
I clear my throat, my eyes not leaving her. “First, let’s start with what my stalker’s name is.”
Her jaw falls slack. “I’m not your stalker.”
“Okay, what’s my not-stalker’s name?”
She can’t know I asked Kiki about her.
She glares at me in suspicion. “Georgia.”
“Okay, Georgia. Want to tell me why it looks like someone told you Taylor Swift quit making music?”
“It’s personal.” She clips a curly tendril of her long hair behind her ear. “Want to tell me why you look like a depressed dick?”
“It’s personal.” I pay a quick glance to Ted when he drops off our drinks.
She flips her hair over her shoulder, exposing the curve of her neck, before grabbing her drink and taking a sip.
What I’d do to run my lips over her soft skin, up the side of her neck, while whispering every way I wanted to pleasure her.
“You came to me, so you wanted conversation.” When she plucks the cherry from the glass and plays with the stem in her mouth, my cock stirs. “What do you want to talk about? Chipmunks? Spilled coffee?”
“I figured you could use some company.”
I should’ve thought this through before approaching her. Per my grandfather’s advice, you always have a plan before undertaking a task. Going in blind only leads you into walls.
She signals to her face. “This face screams, Give me company?”
“Yes, it’s interesting.”
The crowd, the TVs, the hustle and bustle fade as I fixate on her. A sense of unworthiness hits me at seeing her so up close, so vulnerable, as if it’s something I don’t deserve. Even with her swollen eyes—my guess, a result from crying—and the mascara caked along the bottoms, she’s gorgeous. Her effort of wiping off the makeup shows, but she didn’t catch every inch.
I pinch the bridge of my nose to stop myself from reaching out and running a hand over her cheek, rubbing away the spots she missed and erasing the evidence of her pain.
“Interesting?” she fires back.
“It interested me enough to come over and be your company tonight.” I grab my glass and take a slow draw of the cognac.
“There are plenty of other options for company.” She does a circling motion around the room. “Other women. Go give them company because, forewarning, I won’t be a good time.”
And I look like I will?
“I’d rather have a drink with someone who’s had as shitty of a day as I have, who isn’t here for a good time, and who can sit with me in silence yet throw out a few comments here and there.”
“And I seem like that someone?”
Gripping my glass, I raise it to my lips, but instead of taking a drink, I tip it in her direction. “I don’t know. Are you?”
“So …” She taps her nails—colored designs on each one—against her glass before placing it on the bar. “You want to sit here in silence?”
“Silence. Small talk. Whatever.”
“All right then. I guess we’ll sit here and whatever.”
I take a sip of my drink, the rich, spicy liquid coating my tongue, and stare while attempting not to make it obvious. She shifts her attention forward, and when her lower lip trembles, it crushes my soul.
She doesn’t deserve sadness.
Pain.
People like me? We do.
I hardly know her, but I’d gladly rip away her pain and attach it to mine.
“You sure you don’t want to talk about it?” I ask.
Let me fix this for you.
She shakes her head, releasing a sharp laugh. “Not interested in becoming the crying drunk in the corner cliché.”
“I won’t let you cry. Promise.”
She scoffs.
I scoot closer, erasing the distance between us, and press my hand to my chest. “I’m an asshole, remember? You’re too cool to cry in front of an asshole.”
She releases a heavy sigh and hesitates. A wave of silence passes, and I nurse my drink while waiting. As badly as I want to beg her to spill her guts, I stop myself from asking.