How Not to Fall in Love

Prologue Remi

Prologue

Remi

Okay, no, that wasn’t wild. It was everything else about this evening that put me squarely in the What Friggin’ Universe Am I Living In category. But that was the product of an impetuous best friend and a sort-of breakup with a sort-of boyfriend.

Starting my day with laundry, a million unread texts, and copious amounts of both coffee and dry shampoo to keep me functioning was completely normal. Ending my day in the dark corridor of some overpriced bar, wearing a shirt showing entirely too much boob, was not.

“I don’t know if I can wear this.”

Was it too late to protest the clothing choices? Yes. But logic had fled in the wake of exposed cleavage.

Vanessa rolled her eyes, yanking down on my arms when I tried to cover myself. “You are, because you look hot and if I were into women, I’d bang you seven ways till Sunday.” She stepped back, giving an appraising look. “Maybe eight. You could make someone see God with those tits.”

“Thanks,” I said dryly.

Ness leaned forward, slicking a fresh coat of magenta lipstick over her lips. It was a darker shade than her hair, and the effect, I’ll admit, was pretty impressive. “Come on, I told Christian we’d be here thirty minutes ago.”

The throb of the music was obscene. We weren’t even in the main room and my bones pulsed in time with the beat. God, I’d be deaf by the time I got home. And if Ness was distracted enough by the guy who’d invited her, that would hopefully be very soon.

“Why did I say yes to this again?”

Vanessa ran her pointer finger under her eye, even though the thick black eyeliner was immaculate. “Because you are in a multiyear slump, which I thought would be broken by what’s-his-name—” I gave her a sharp look, and she held up her hands. “I know, we’re not talking about that train wreck.”

“Just because he didn’t break the slump doesn’t mean I need . . .” I fumbled for words, eventually settling on a vague gesture toward my chest. “God, I must be more buzzed than I thought for agreeing to this.”

She patted me consolingly on the shoulder. “It was only two drinks, sweet pea.”

“Two drinks with a heavy pour,” I pointed out. “I have zero tolerance, Ness.”

“I know.” She smiled. “You have not had a night of harmless debauchery in a decade of this single-mom gig, and this morning you said you were annoyed that the most exciting part of your life was the thirty minutes at the end of the day where you read the books I force on you. I find that unacceptable.”

I rubbed my temples. “Yeah, I did say that, didn’t I?”

“More than once.”

“It’s your fault,” I accused. “You gave me that book.”

“You’d think I’d be out looking for a bunch of hot brothers living on a mountain in Colorado somewhere, because”—she shivered—“I can get on board.”

“You got invited to this party by a musician, Ness. I think you’re doing just fine.”

She smiled a devious smile. “True. And just think, if I hadn’t gone backstage, we wouldn’t be here right now.”

I shifted uncomfortably, tugging on the straps of the black sparkly top that was draped over my upper body.

“Stop that,” she admonished.

“No. If I walk into that room with nipple showing, I’d never forgive you.”

“Yes, you would.”

“I know,” I sighed. “It’s too hard to find best friends in your late twenties.”

“For you,” she pointed out. “Because you don’t go anywhere or do anything.

Hence the sexy shirt and the sexy bar.” She wrapped her hands around my shoulders and turned me in the direction of the pulsing lights and too-loud music.

“And hopefully, a sexy guy who will appreciate you in all your Milf glory.”

“I hate you.” I swatted her hands away. “I’m not sleeping with anyone tonight. There is zero chance that anyone here will fit the list.”

Vanessa groaned. “That fucking list. If I thought burning it would help, I’d do it.” She hooked her arm in mine and started walking toward the bar and dance floor. “I’m not saying you have to sleep with someone—”

“Oh, goodie.”

“—I’m saying you just need to have some fun. Talk. Flirt. Maybe a dance or two.” She dipped her head closer to mine. “It won’t kill you.”

“You do not know that. It might.”

“Let’s go, hot stuff. I’ve got a good feeling about tonight.”

I had to slow my steps to match hers. Her legs, on a normal day, were as long as mine, both of us above-average height (she was an inch shorter than my five nine, but consistently lied and said she was five ten), but tonight, she was wearing five-inch heels.

According to her, she wanted to be able to make out with the tall, hot musician without getting a crick in her neck.

Seemed logical enough, but the sight of her knifelike heels made me wince.

I’d allowed for a kitten heel and that was it.

The faux-leather pants and the top that flowed around my midriff, allowing glimpses of my stomach, were enough adventure for me, thank you very much.

“I can’t even raise my arms too high, Ness,” I shouted, the volume getting louder as we neared the dance floor.

“Why not?”

I turned and showed her. “Underboob,” I cried. “I can’t show underboob in public.”

“Bitch, yes, you can.” Her face transformed into a wide, excited smile. “I see Christian. Do you want to come meet him?”

My mouth hung open as I took in the scene in front of me.

This wasn’t a normal bar on a normal Saturday night.

We’d stepped into some alternate universe—glistening, beautiful people who did not exist in my normal sphere.

I never paid too much attention to celebrity culture, but based on the presence of numerous security guards, and the sheer size of some of the men milling around—with cut jawlines and massive, muscular bodies—I was likely surrounded by them.

They were inked and hard-bodied. The women were stunning—all shiny hair and slinky dresses. Pink, purple, and blue lights flickered off writhing bodies on the dance floor, giving the room an intoxicating glow.

My chest tightened with nerves. “No, you go ahead. I’m going to find a seat at the bar until I feel a little bit less . . . overwhelmed by the hotness.”

Ness laughed, leaning in to kiss my cheek. “I’ll allow it, as long as you promise to stay for one hour.” I opened my mouth, and she laid a finger over my lips. “And no, it doesn’t count if you sit in one place and don’t talk to anyone.”

I rolled my eyes, pulling her hand away from my mouth. “Fine, what’s my ticket out of here?”

She pursed her lips. “A good conversation. And a dance. You have to dance with someone.”

“Vanessa.”

“One dance.” She adopted an innocent expression. “That’s easy enough.”

I snorted. “Sure, it is. Maybe for you.”

She grabbed my face in both hands. “For you. You are a tall, gorgeous, leggy redhead with a great rack. Remi Sinclair is a grade-A hottie, even if she lives her day-to-day life in T-shirts and leggings and has forgotten her objective hotness because she thinks her entire life revolves around taking care of other people.”

That was the thing, though, wasn’t it? My entire life did revolve around that. Setting that aside for fun, for frivolity, the innocent debauchery she spoke of, was a herculean task.

Even with two drinks in my bloodstream, lowering my inhibitions enough that I’d actually shown up, I battled the discomfort of what she was trying to say. Even if it was meant with all the love in the world, admitting that you’d lost something of yourself without realizing it wasn’t easy either.

Instead of admitting that, I narrowed my eyes. “Still doesn’t mean I remember how to dance like”—I pointed to the dance floor—“this.”

“I know what you were like in high school, Miss Sinclair, so don’t act like I’ve never seen you do this before.”

“You mean, before I got pregnant at seventeen?”

She smacked my ass. “Yup. Now, go find a seat and have another drink for courage.”

Without another word, she was gone in a whirl of pink hair, and I was left standing by myself in a place where I definitely didn’t belong.

If I were home, I’d be halfway through a chapter, Kindle almost falling on my face because I could hardly keep my eyes open for more than thirty minutes once I was lying in bed. That sounded nice, didn’t it?

Just a quiet night for a little smutty reading and an early bedtime, where the most disquieting part of the entire process was trying to figure out why my feet were always freezing when I went to bed.

A couple women passed me, both holding expensive-looking cocktails. The brunette had boobs that defied gravity, in a shirt that was cut down to her belly button. No breastfeeding for her, I could almost guarantee that.

The blonde gave me a friendly smile when she caught me staring. “I like your shirt,” she said.

“Thank you.” I glanced down, making sure there was no nipple to be seen. “Where did you get that drink?”

She pointed to the other end of the room. “Specialty drinks are over there in the corner, at the bar with the blue lights, but the regular bar is back here.” With a conspiratorial grin, she leaned closer. “The men are back by the blue lights. Definitely go to that one.”

After saying thanks, I puffed out my cheeks, blowing out a slow stream of air. In order to have that pretty pink thing with the sugared rim, I’d need to trek through the writhing bodies, and I was not drunk enough for that.

I wasn’t drunk at all, really. There was just enough that my head felt light and my shoulders weren’t tight with tension like . . . well, like they always were.

There was another bar along the wall to my right—the regular bar, as she’d called it, which didn’t look all that regular to me.

The bottom half glowed white, the edge lined with a hot-pink light that reminded me of Vanessa’s hair.

Three beautiful bartenders flipped bottles and pulled taps and filled drinks for the equally beautiful people who waited on the long edge.

But where the bar made a 90-degree angle, there were three seats, two unclaimed, and in the third—the middle—was a man’s broad back in a simple white shirt.