In horror, I watch Dad walk right up to the woman, tap her on the shoulder—actually tap her—and then hold his arms out and hug her when she turns around.
Wait . . . hug her?
Why is he hugging her?
There should be no hugging. We don’t hug strangers. Am I really at that point in my life where the child becomes the parent and I have to teach my parents how to be normal human beings again?
When Dad lets go of the girl, Mom swoops in for a hug as well.
What the hell is wrong with them?
If I wasn’t so worried about them finding their way around Seattle, I’d ditch this bar and go find a bucket to stick my head in, drown out this nightmare.
“It’s so great to see you,” I hear Mom coo while she hugs the woman, swaying her back and forth.
Does Mom know her? Hopefully she’s a friend of theirs and I can be let off the hook. That would be the most ideal scenario—they run into an old friend and are so distracted that they completely forget why they came out in the first place.
“Cooper, come here,” Dad says, waving to me.
And just like that, the ideal scenario dies. It was only a matter of time.
Reluctantly, I stand from my chair and head toward the dark corner, where I’m probably going to meet one of their boccie ball friends, or someone they had a game night with once. My parents are very social humans. Unlike me, they have an extensive Rolodex of friends they can call up on any given night.
“Over here, Cooper. Come. Come.” Mom motions for me to join them as well.
Trying not to look like the dud of a son that I feel like, I plaster on a smile and step up to the bar. Dad grips my shoulder. “Cooper, look who it is.”
The woman sets her drink down, turns in her seat and . . . holy shit.
“It’s Nora!” Mom claps her hands. “What are the chances?”
Uh, yeah . . . you could say that.
What are the chances that Nora McHale would be at the same bar as my parents and me?
Those deep-brown eyes of hers offer me a slow perusal, starting at my chest and working up to my face. When our eyes connect, a small smirk pulls at the corner of her mouth.
“Cooper Chance, funny running into you here . . . with your parents.”
I hold back my disgruntled snort. “Just showing them around town—thought I’d give them some local culture, dive bars.”
“That’s not what your dad said.”
Christ.
Dad squeezes my shoulder. “Yup, told her we were cruising the streets for nice girls.”
Why is this my life?
Humor flits across Nora’s face as she casually crosses one leg over the other. “Have any success?”
“We haven’t really been looking for nice girls.” I motion to my parents. “Delusional in their old age. Actually, I think it’s time for you two to go take your medications. We should get going.”
“Always joking, this one,” Mom says, wrapping her arm around my waist and resting her head on my chest. “Hard to imagine he’s single, don’t you think?”
“It’s just incredible,” Nora says, finding too much joy in what’s unfolding in front of her.
“You know, wouldn’t it be fun if you two had a moment to catch up with each other?” Mom gestures between me and Nora.
I truly believe, in this moment, that my mom has lost touch with reality.
“Great idea,” Dad says. He taps the bar, and the bartender steps up. “Dear sir, would we be able to get two waters?”
“Coming right up,” the gruff man behind the bar says. He sets two glasses full of ice on the bar top and then sprays water into them. My dad places a five-dollar bill on the bar top and grabs the water. “Peggy, care to join me in the back? I feel like a little romance myself.” He waggles his brows and nods toward the corner we occupied.
“Oh, Mr. Chance, how romantic of you.” She slips her arm through my dad’s and then turns to me. “Go ahead, honey. Talk with Nora. Catch up. Have a little romance yourself.”
I clench down on my jaw so hard that I fear I might crack a tooth. How could they possibly think that I want to catch up with Nora McHale, let alone “have a little romance” with her?
Before they can fully make it to their table, I stop them midway, giving us just enough distance from Nora that she can’t overhear.
“You two can’t be serious about this,” I whisper.
“Honey, what’s wrong?” Mom asks, completely confused. “You know Nora. She’s a friend of the family.”
“You’re missing a big piece of this puzzle.” When they stare at me blankly, I groan. “She’s my ex-wife’s best friend. What makes you think I want to have any romance with her?”
Mom dismissively waves her hand. “Oh, that’s nothing you need to worry about. You’re all adults, not petty teenagers. Go on. Go have some fun.”
“Yes, go have fun,” Dad encourages. “You only live once, son.”
With that, they turn their backs on me, huddling together and cutting me out completely.
I glance over my shoulder to where Nora is sitting patiently, watching everything unfold.
As I see it, I have two options. I can bolt out of here and sprint all the way to my apartment, where I’ll lock myself away from the world forever, or I can go sit at the bar near Nora and drown myself in some whiskey.
Option one is humiliating.
Option two . . . also humiliating, but will hopefully offer the possible chance to forget everything in the morning.
Hmm . . . guess there’s a clear-cut choice.
Bottoms up.
Chapter Four
NORA
Never in a million years would I have ever thought I’d run into Cooper Chance at the Dirty Beaver, let alone run into his parents acting as his wingmen.
And I thought this night was going to be a complete bust.
Looks like things just got interesting.
But what’s even more interesting? Cooper is not the man I remember from a year ago. He’s stacked on some muscles he never had before. He changed out his glasses from a round silver frame to a more stylish square black frame. And instead of the clean-shaven man I’ve seen in many pictures, he’s now sporting a solid scruff, which toes the line of full beard.
Someone had a bit of a glow up after their divorce, and it’s doing him good.
Really good.
And you probably shouldn’t be looking at him in that way . . . Nora.
Sighing heavily, he flops onto a stool and drapes his large arms on the bar top. “Whiskey, please,” he says to Earl, head turned down.
When he took a seat, he left a stool between us, which is telling me two things—he’s willing to have a conversation, but he also doesn’t want to be completely open to talking.
But this is too much fun for me not to have a conversation with the man.
“So . . . your parents as wingmen. That’s a first,” I say.
Slowly, he tilts his head to the side until our eyes meet. “Not by my choice.”
“I gathered that by your ever-present sulking. You know, some might feel quite lucky that their parents care so much about their love lives.”
“Mine are too involved.”
I shrug. “I think it’s cute. Trolling the streets for nice girls—feels like a YouTube series. I can see the opening credits. You three, linked arm in arm, skipping down the sidewalk together.”