Insta-Mine

Bates

Sometimes a guy wants to drink alone.

And sometimes the universe has other ideas.

Apparently, it thinks I need company more than ever, because it has sent in someone I just cannot ignore — an angel so beautiful, her very existence is an automatic rebuttal against my current internal argument that life is a shitty shitstorm of shit-covered shit.

The curvy blond walks straight toward me, as if on a mission that requires my involvement. My heart rate quickens at the thought, and my mind races too. The dark cloud that had followed me here begins to recede as hope dawns and lifts my heart.

What is this strange, potent magic that would have me forget wounds so deep? Only moments ago, I was wallowing. I thought I’d lost everything I’ve ever wanted, but now…?

Now I want new things.

I hadn’t planned to even look at another woman for a long while yet, but I can’t help myself. She’s gorgeous, and I can’t tear my eyes away.

From head to toe, she seems customized to my personal preferences, but that’s not what has me captivated.

There’s a warm and natural look about her that is in stark opposition to her business-crisp attire and efficient strides, and that contradiction tugs at my curiosity.

Within a heartbeat, this striking woman has become a puzzle my brain wants to figure out.

A seemingly wholesome, yet fierce, puzzle in a disturbingly attractive package.

The angel perches on the barstool next to mine, and it’s so hard not to stare.

I want her to look up, see me, and smile, but she’s busy searching for something in her satchel-like handbag.

She probably wouldn’t be interested in me anyway.

I’m definitely the epitome of wishful thinking. Delusion, even.

But I can’t deny the magnetic pull I feel toward her.

It’s stronger than any attraction I’ve felt before, and it’s making me nervous because I know I’m meant to do something with this feeling.

Something more than my simply acknowledging it.

Every cell in my body feels either peace or longing at having her this near to me.

It’s motivating as fuck to keep her close, but how?

She’s a beautiful stranger, and I don’t want the intensity of what I’m feeling to scare her away.

Her presence has every receptor in my need-to-breed lizard-brain feeling so dangerously over-primed that I want to flick out my tongue and taste the air around her before licking her from head to toe.

I force my eyes to the coaster under my beer.

I can’t think straight. Why do I want to taste her so badly?

That’s not a thing. I mean, it is, according to my dick, because my imagination took it way too far and sent my tongue between her legs, but before that happened, I’d only thought to see if she tasted as nice as she smells. Like apples and cinnamon, and heaven.

What do I say to give me the best chance of smelling her up close?

I steal glimpses, intent on learning everything about her, but the more I look, the more the less-lizardy parts of my brain sound alarm bells.

There’s a freshness about this grown woman that makes me question how long she’s actually been grown.

I look her over again, trying to guess her age.

Her attire is modest, tasteful, and seems befitting of a mature woman, but if I were to judge her age from her face, I’d say she could easily pass for being half my age. Maybe younger. Fuck.

With her long, golden waves loosely tied in a simple tail, she looks as if she’s stepped off the ranch for an evening meeting in her polished boots and tidy jeans.

Her unblemished, still-bears-the-visible-lines-of-being-freshly-pressed linen shirt is so white I’d bet my truck that she follows the washing instructions on her clothing labels when she does her laundry.

Is she the kind of person who avoids dirt? If so, she’ll want to avoid me, but something about her prim and proper appearance makes me want to show her how good it feels to get filthy. Would she let me?

She doesn’t seem closed-off, but she’s also not open to an approach right now.

Since making a beeline for the bar, she’s ignored everything around her so she can focus on hurriedly writing on a notepad.

If she did come from a business meeting, I don’t think things went entirely her way.

I’m surprised her pencil lead doesn’t break under the pressure she’s using to carve dark letters into the paper.

She punctuates sharply, immediately shoves her notepad back into her handbag, and pounds a fist on the bar before she shows the bartender a full hand of pretty fingers with trimmed, unpolished nails.

“Five shots of tequila and a brewski. I don’t care which kind. In its bottle,” she says, flashing her hotel key card with the number emblazoned on it. “Please.”

The ancient-looking bartender doesn’t rush to fill her order. He sizes her up with a wary eye instead. “ID.”

I ease onto the edge of my seat, eager to learn the outcome of his demand, since I’m not the only one who thinks she looks young.

The woman rumbles her irritation, fetches a simple leather wallet from her bag, and slaps her driver’s license down on the bar.

I wait for the bartender’s sigh of approval, then release the breath I was holding.

Everyone here is a grownup. That’s a relief. I won’t have to kick my own ass for having certain thoughts about her.

I sip my beer and wonder who she’s meeting if she needs five shots and a beer. Friends? A guy? There’s no ring on her finger. That doesn’t mean she’s single, but there’s no harm in finding out by presenting myself as a potential companion for the evening.

Shot glasses are lined up in front of her as she’s stowing her wallet.

I glance toward the bar entrance, half-expecting the arrival of more professional-looking women to help her consume her beverages. “You expecting company?” I ask.

“You offering?” She slams back all five shots in quick succession before she turns to face me, and when she does, she almost falls off her barstool. “Holy fucking shit.”

Her cussing brings a smile to my lips. She’s a beautiful badass dressed in good-girl’s clothing? I once again experience the unexpected allure of this dual-natured woman.

She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, and her wide brown eyes scan me from head to toe several times before her gaze comes to rest on my face.

I raise an eyebrow at her as she keeps staring, but she doesn’t quit looking at me. Instead, her fingers inch blindly along the bar until they encounter her bottle of beer, then she takes it to her lips and keeps staring at me while she drinks.

I watch her right back, prop my face with my hand, and keep smiling. “Whatcha thinkin’?”

Her cheeks flush a pretty pink. She lowers the nearly empty beer bottle from her shining lips, but she doesn’t say anything. Nor does she quit her staring.

I can’t tell if she likes what she sees or not. Her expression is still kind of reading as “stunned.”

I tip my head toward the empty shot glasses. “Bad night?”

“I… I’m not sure.” She looks me up and down again and turns back toward the bar. Her head hangs for a moment, then she looks at the ceiling. Her lips move as if she’s doing some sort of complex calculation in her head.

I signal to the bartender that I’d like another, and when I check out the blond again, she’s looking straight at me. Only now she’s all nervous and shit. Like she wants to ask me something, but is maybe too scared.

“What’s up?” I ask, checking to make sure I haven’t accidentally gravitated closer to her prettiness without meaning to. My size and general appearance can be intimidating sometimes.

“Um…” She takes a deep breath and glances around the bar before her eyes return to me. She seems to build herself up for something, and I’m expecting her to come up with a polite excuse to escape, but this woman is full of wonderful surprises.

“Would you like to sit in a booth? With me? Over there?” She points behind me to an intimate little corner booth with dim lighting and fancy glasses set out.

Holy shit. Is she interested?

My heart races, and half of me is set to rush over there to wait for her. The other half of me cools my jets because it remembers I’m not a giddy schoolgirl.

I give her a casual half-nod, as if my middle-aged ass is propositioned by beautiful young women every day, then I gesture for her to lead the way. “After you.”

She slides off her stool and walks briskly to the booth, where she quickly makes herself comfortable and pulls the small spiral-bound notebook from her bag again.

She extracts her pencil from the coiled spine, then flips open the cover and thumbs through several pages before starting to scribble again.

I ease into the seat opposite her. “Are you… making notes?”

I tilt my head and squint at her mish-mash of symbols and letters, unable to interpret the gibberish she’s written.

“Sort of. Just… ordering my thoughts.” She flips the notebook shut, and her blush deepens. “I know — it’s annoying and weird; it’s just something I do. Sorry.” She rushes to get the notebook out of my sight as if she’s done something wrong.

Her response sparks annoyance in my gut. A gruff rumble escapes my chest before I can smother it. “Don’t ever apologize for being yourself. To anyone.”

She stares at me again, her lips slightly parted. Her breaths are so silent and shallow that she may not even be breathing. In my experience, that kind of reaction to me usually means one of two things.

“Do I scare you?” I ask, hoping it’s not true.

She shakes her head, and she seems genuine, so I relax into my seat a little. “Good.” That means her intense gaze and subtle breathlessness are because of the other thing — the thing that makes kissing her a definite possibility.

I glance at the closed notepad sitting next to her on the booth seat. “What code were you writing in? Made it hard for me to read your notes and learn all your secrets.”