Right now, I could kiss the hell out of him.
“Trust me, I have better moves to get you to go home with me than buying you drinks.”
I had no intentions of coming out tonight to find a guy to go home with.
But the more sips of alcohol that burn my throat and the more this man stares at me like I’m the only thing he wants to see, the more my guard slips.
And the more the idea of going home with him doesn’t sound so crazy after all.
2
Nolan
A bar is the last place I wanted to be tonight.
After hanging up my helmet for the day, I wasn’t in the mood for company. Tired from getting up at the ass-crack of dawn, all I wanted was to go home. I had a six-pack of beer and leftover Chinese waiting for me in the fridge. My couch was calling my name, and a new true crime documentary awaited me.
But when your best friend calls and tells you you’re going out…well, you’re fucking going out.
Now that I’m here, I kind of wish I’d spent more time on my appearance, like running a comb through my hair instead of my fingers or shaving the stubble that’s grown in since this morning.
It has everything to do with the girl sitting next to me.
I noticed her the moment I opened the door to Hole in One, a hidden gem this city has no idea it’s missing out on.
She stared out at the crowd with sad eyes, but it wasn’t the melancholy gaze that made her stand out. I mean, fuck, it’s a bar—most people in a bar are sad.
Nah.
It was the way that, despite the sadness, she had her shoulders pressed back and sat upon the stool as if it were a throne.
Her thoughts consumed her so much I doubt she noticed she had the attention of several people, including me. Her pouty bottom lip was stuck between her teeth, and her brows pinched together in concentration.
I glanced at her finger—empty—and before I knew it, I was sitting next to her.
She spent at least another thirty seconds watching the crowd while I watched her.
I still don’t know her name, but I do know she might be the most gorgeous girl I’ve ever seen in person.
Her deep brown hair hangs in waves down her back. My fingers itch to touch it. Just like I’m dying to lean into her and get a better smell of whatever perfume she’s wearing, the one I keep catching a whiff of every time she shifts around.
Which she’s doing right now.
She clears her throat and fits her hands around her top-shelf whiskey sour, pushing her shoulders back again, pretending my words did not affect her when they did. Her pink cheeks give her away.
I fight a smirk.
“It’s not my fault,” she informs me, like she’s embarrassed I might think she’s unable to pay her bills.
If that were the case, I’d be the last person to judge her.
I can’t count the number of late notices we received growing up. My dad was a single parent raising a hellion of a kid in a down economy. We struggled, swam our way through debt and notice after notice.
She’ll receive no judgment from me.
Hell, most of us are one bad day away from being on the shit end of a notice like that. It happens, and it’s nothing to be ashamed of.
“The owner of the building sold the land, and they don’t need to keep the apartments,” she explains. “They have plans to tear everything down and replace it.”
She can’t be talking about…
“Who knew 7th Street was such an ideal location for an outdoor sports equipment store?”
Fuck me.
Donny slides two more glasses in front of us, and I could kiss the bastard for his timing.
I swallow down a good gulp, attempting to smash away the guilt pitching a tent in my chest.
The first time I go out in ages…
The first girl I meet in months…
And she lives in the building my boss bought and plans to tear down, meaning I’m part of the reason she’s struggling right now.
Fucking awesome.
“It’s fine though. I’ll figure it out.” She blows out a breath, picking up her new drink and shaking her head. “I always do.”
“I’m sorry,” I tell her, because I am.
“Not your fault.”
Except it is.
She shrugs, taking a drink. Setting the glass down, she rolls her tongue across her plump lips, flicking away the hair that’s fallen over her shoulder. “So, if you’re not here drowning your sorrows—allegedly—then what brings you in?” She lifts a sculpted brow. “Let me guess, you’re looking for love?”
Given my obvious displeasure with the number of couples here tonight, I know she’s teasing.
I bark out a laugh. “Not a chance.”
“And here I had you pegged for a Romeo.”
“Only if you’ll be my Juliet.”
She cringes at the same time I do, and we laugh.
“That was awful, huh?”
“Very.”
“I promise I have better lines than that.”
She lifts her brows again. “I thought you weren’t looking for love.”
I pull a face at the mention of love, and she laughs.
“You not a believer in happily ever afters or something?”
Another swallow of scotch because I can’t help the memories barreling through my mind.
I haven’t always been so against the idea of forever with someone. I remember the days when my parents would dance in the kitchen and my mother would smile up at my father with pure adoration. Even then I thought, I want that.
Then, life as I knew it was ripped away one snowy December day.
My mom told my dad she’d met someone else who would love her like she wanted to be loved, packed her bags, and left.
For years, I watched my father nurse his heartbreak. Watched him try to figure out where it all went wrong.
He never did, and he died five years ago with a broken heart.
I refuse to ever let someone have that much power over me, and I avoid relationships like the plague. Building a relationship with someone means giving them the ability to hurt you, and I’ll pass on that. I’m fine with keeping things casual. No need to get emotions involved.
I repeat her words from earlier back to her. “Something like that.” Though, unlike her, I have no intentions of divulging any more information.
Luckily, she doesn’t press.
“My best friend forced me out,” I tell her instead. “Except he’s running late.”
“Mine too! The brat had the audacity to text me to brag why she’s running late.” I pick up on what she’s referring to as she sighs, the frustration clear in the way her shoulders set inward. “Whatever. I’m not complaining about her forcing me to hang out though.” She shrugs. “I could use the drinks and distraction.”
“Because of the eviction.”
Eviction.
The word tastes bitter on my tongue.
I’ve never thought much about my job and the buildings my boss buys to tear down and rebuild. I just show up at the jobsite, get the work done, and collect my paycheck.
Meeting someone whose life is getting flipped around so my already loaded boss can pad his pocket some more?
It fucking sucks the life out of me.
I went through something similar at the end of last year. The owner of the tiny-as-hell studio apartment I’d been renting for years passed away, and the kids opted to sell the property. The sale happened so fast, in the end I only had about two weeks to find a new place and move.