“Wrong,” Grace argues. “He was in line to become a priest but relinquished the idea when he discovered sex was better than celibacy.” She rolls her eyes. “Unfortunately, that sex wasn’t with me, his girlfriend.”
“Rat bastard,” Lola mutters, dragging a hand through her straight jet-black hair.
Five minutes into my date last night, I realized it was a bad idea.
What did I think was a good idea?
Ordering one too many cocktails.
If the guy isn’t providing decent conversation, it’s time booze tapped in.
It’s not Grace’s fault.
While I like nice guys, I don’t do puppy nice.
I need a man who challenges me, and that wasn’t Bill.
Boring Bill talked about his mother and went into full-blown details about his lactose intolerance after I ordered cheesecake, and the way he fumbled with his fork while eating convinced me he’d be fumbling to find my clit.
Typically, I’m not so hard on men.
Maybe it’s me still being caught up on Chase.
He didn’t struggle with finding my clit.
I grab my water bottle and take a long drink—an attempt to wash away thoughts of him.
I swore off men after the Chase incident, and even though it wasn’t a breakup, I did the whole change your hair thing. I’m now a blonde.
New hair.
Not new me because I can’t get that rat bastard out of my head. I was stupid enough to believe a man who parked like a selfish idiot wouldn’t smash and dash. My dumbass should’ve asked more questions, delved deeper into his asshole of a soul before taking a trip to his bed.
“You’re thinking of him, aren’t you?” Lola asks, interrupting my thoughts.
That damn intuition of hers.
Grace glances at me. “Thinking of who?”
Lola smirks. “Her one-night-stand runner.”
“Oh,” Grace says, her green eyes widening. “The coffee jerk.”
“The guy who rear-ended her twice,” Lola confirms with a nod.
I flip her off again.
They know about my Chase nightmare—how I stupidly went home with him without even questioning if he was a serial killer.
Lola laughs. “We do need to give homeboy some credit for the coffee and doughnuts. He provided … what do they call it? A continental breakfast?”
“Funny,” I grumble.
“Have you tried reaching out again?” Grace asks.
I shake my head. Kiki made it clear it’d be a waste of my time.
“I’m officially swearing off men,” I say, slumping in my chair.
“What about the guy coming tonight?” Grace smiles. “The one Cohen is opening a bar with. Maybe he’s single.”
“I’m swearing off all men,” I clarify.
A smile tugs at my lips. Not because of the man possibly being single but for my brother. Owning a bar is his dream, and it’s finally coming true. The other day during Taco Tuesday, Cohen mentioned he was in talks of starting a bar with a guy he used to work with. Said guy is coming to today’s barbecue.
“Archer Callahan will make a great business partner,” Lola states matter-of-factly. “A great man to date? Definitely not.”
“What do you know about him?” Grace asks.
“He’s cool and wealthy as fuck, and he has bar experience,” Lola replies. “Hell, he has straight-up business experience, given his family. The Callahans own half the commercial real estate in Iowa.”
“The Callahans?” I cut in. “My brother is going into business with a Callahan?”
Lola nods. “You didn’t know that?”
I shake my head. “At least I know Cohen will be in good hands.”
Like nearly everyone else, I’ve heard of the Callahan family, but I don’t know much about them.
Grace tilts her head to the side. “If he’s so wealthy, why doesn’t he work for his family?”
“Do you guys not watch the news?” Lola replies.
“Too busy,” I say while Grace mutters, “I have homework to grade instead.”
Lola leans in, ready to spill the tea. “His family was busted for doing shady shit. Archer’s father was laundering money through the company, hiding funds overseas—all those white-collar crimes you see in the movies. The word is, Archer knew something sketchy was happening and quit—probably not wanting to star in the male reality show version of Orange Is the New Black. Feds went to town on his family’s assets, and everything came crashing down. Archer and his mother were the only ones left unscathed.”
I suck in a long breath—hyper-focusing on her words. The story, it’s so familiar to what happened to Chase’s family.
Surely, it couldn’t be him, right?
People go to prison all the time.
I’m sure shit like that happens on the regular.
I gulp. “How do you know all this?”
“His father collects … well, collected expensive liquor and was a regular customer at the distribution company I work for. They tend to send me to their high-profile clients since I’m a kick-ass saleswoman.” She winks, swiping fake dirt off her shoulder. “Dude was nice, enjoyed flaunting his riches … and hiding it apparently.”
As if with perfect timing, Cohen yells, “Archer, my man! You came.”
“Speak of the devil,” Lola says, pointing over my shoulder.
My heart races when I turn in my chair to find Chase strolling through the backyard. I hold in a breath and wait in anticipation for another man to come into view.
For Archer to come into view.
Maybe he and Chase are friends.
“Archer finally shows his fucking face,” I hear Silas call out behind me.
This motherfucker.
Asshole gave me the wrong name.
Archer the asshole.
Seems fitting.
I turn to face my friends and lower my voice, “That’s Archer Callahan?”
Say no. Please say no.
Lola nods. “Sure is.”
I grip Grace’s arm in panic. “That’s him.”
Grace blinks at me. “Who’s him?”
“The guy I slept with,” I hiss. “That’s him!”
“What?” Lola shrieks. “You fucked Archer Callahan?”
8
Archer
This is a fucking shitshow.
When I scan Cohen’s backyard and see her, a deep chill climbs up my spine, and I contemplate leaving.
She might’ve dyed her hair blond, but there’s no doubt it’s her.
Georgia.
The woman I should’ve never sat next to at the bar.
The woman I should’ve never touched.
The woman whose face still haunts my thoughts.
Why is she here?
Who is she to Cohen?
Jesus, fuck, please don’t be his girlfriend … or someone related to him.
Our eyes meet, and hers are darkened with resentment as she glowers at me. I wait on her next move before making my own.
Will she rat me out?
Smack me in the face?
She tightens her hand around the armrest of the chair but doesn’t stand or make a move in my direction. After a good thirty seconds, I realize me standing there, staring at her, will only draw questions. I smash our eye contact, shove my hands into my pockets, and walk toward Cohen. With each step, I pray she’s some random person to him.