Single Mom’s Guide to Love (Guide to Love #2)

1. Maeve

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maeve

“Jack and Diet Coke, please. Actually, make it a double. ”

The bartender listens and, most importantly, doesn’t judge as he sets the cocktail napkin in front of me and goes off to make my drink.

Now, I’ll usually have a drink before a flight—especially when I plan to take an in-flight nap—but a double is a lot even for me.

Then again, this week was a lot, so I think I’m justified. One would think the glamorous world of interior design is easy and wouldn’t require double pours. It’s just picking pillows and buying pieces of art, right?

Wrong.

This business trip started with four days in Miami, executing a job for a man who probably knows intimate details about how cartels work. That was followed by a quick pit stop in Charlotte for a consultation with a former client who just made partner at his law firm and wanted to spruce up his condo. This normally wouldn’t be stressful—he was easy enough to work with back in the day—but his new girlfriend was very opinionated.

And very wrong. Needless to say I politely declined that commission when she was unwilling to admit that teal blue and yellow floral wallpaper with pineapples mixed in was not a good idea for the living room.

After that debacle I headed to Atlanta for a three-day interior design and architecture conference where I was not only attending but also a panelist. I normally don’t go to things like that, but I’ve been wanting to branch out my connections in the industry and thought this would be a good way to do it. The only problem was that I’ve become very well known for what I do—and do well—so every conversation turned into them picking my brain about how to expand their services to men.

I guess that’s what I get for being Maeve Banks, Designer for the Rich and Douchey. And no, that’s not my title, just the one my sister Quinn wants me to use for the reality show she insists I pitch to a network. I’d call it more like “Maeve Banks comes up with another version of gray walls and black leather couches for pompous assholes with too much money.” I’ll admit that doesn’t have the same ring to it.

I smile at the bartender and take a sip of the drink he delivered as I let hysterical thoughts of a reality show pass through my mind. I’d be the worst reality star in the world. Unless there’s a market for cynical, Type-A women who roll their eyes when clients hit on her while also telling them they aren’t unique for wanting a wet bar to show off their scotch collection.

You’re not original, Carl. You’re just going through a midlife crisis.

As I look around the first-class airport lounge while I wait for my flight back to Nashville, all I see are the men who are my ideal clients, wearing custom suits and sipping on expensive whiskey. Some reading the financial section of newspapers because they want to show how intelligent they are, others scrolling on their phones to make sure their favorite stocks aren’t plummeting. Men who go out of their way to make sure the women they hit on see their expensive watches.

They’re all around me, but even if they weren’t, I could spot them a mile away. I’ve worked with enough to know the type. These men don’t balk at my consultant rates, because they want a stylish place to live and don’t know the difference between an ottoman and a duvet.

Then again, if these kinds of men didn’t exist, I wouldn’t have a job, which is why I might vent, but I’ll never be ungrateful. Would I love a change of pace? Absolutely. One can only design so many man caves before her head explodes. But on the other side of that coin, I’ve found a niche in a market that pays me well and keeps me busy. They have the means, I have the ability, and my son is going to one day go to college without a dime of financial aid.

That’s what I call wins all around.

“Whiskey. Neat please.”

I normally wouldn’t pay attention to a stranger’s drink order while sitting at a bar, but this is going to be the exception. And not just because we’re at an airport bar where rules don’t exist, but because the accent that I just overheard sent a tingle through me. I don’t know what it is about a British accent, but it’ll make me go from a put-together single mother to a thirsty, horny woman in two seconds flat.

I do my best to catch a glimpse of the man next to me, and thank God I wasn’t drinking at that moment because good Lord…I don’t know if I’ve ever seen a more attractive man in my life. With his looks and his accent he could be the next James Bond.

He can shake me, stir me, do whatever he wants to me…

I do my best to avert my eyes, but it’s no use. In my defense, he’s unbuttoning his navy-blue suit jacket, so it’s like he’s begging me to keep watching him. At least, that’s what I’m telling myself so I don’t feel like a gawker.

Even though I totally am.

He pulls back his arms to stretch, showcasing his muscled chest. I do a quick up and down on him, and even though he’s sitting, I can tell he’s well over six-foot. His dark hair is full, and if I was a woman who still had sex—I don’t because men are trash and I don’t have the time—I’d want to run my hands through it while he was sliding into me.

His jawline could cut glass and is clean shaven. The black-rimmed glasses he’s wearing fit his face perfectly, and it makes me wonder if he wears them all the time or if this is a special occasion. I have this instant image of him lying in bed, shirtless of course, wearing pajama pants and reading something serious like The Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire . And yes, I might be next to him with my latest thriller.

“Ma’am, would you like another?”

The bartender’s words snap me out of the delusion of reading in bed with this stranger. Because apparently that’s what I fantasize about these days. “Yes, please.”

“Put it on my tab?”

Shit. Did he notice me watching? Is he buying me a drink so I stop ogling him? I guess there’s only one way to find out…

When I turn back to James Bond, I wasn’t prepared for his emerald green eyes to be staring at me. There are a few seats between us, but that doesn’t lessen their impact.

“Thanks, but you didn’t have to do that,” I say.

“I know.”

I was expecting some sort of pickup line, so his direct answer throws me. “Then why did you?”

He shrugs and takes another sip of his drink. “A beautiful woman at a bar should never pay for drinks.”

And there it is. The line. I knew it was coming sooner or later. Doesn’t matter if they’re broke boys trying to get you with a Smirnoff Ice and the promise of a fun night, or a gorgeous man with a panty-melting accent buying you overpriced airport cocktails in a custom suit, they all are made the same.

Smooth lines. Good smiles. A few drinks.

Next thing you know you’re marrying the wrong man for the wrong reasons, and you’re divorced before the ink is dry on the marriage license.

Okay, maybe that last part is just me, but I’ll shout from the rooftops about the first part.

“Thank you,” I say, not wanting to come off rude. “But I can afford my own drinks.”

“I know you can, Love,” he says, turning toward me. “Just because you can doesn’t mean you should.”

Wait…did he just call me…

“Love?”

Yes, I could have dissected the last part of his pickup line, but for some reason I’m choosing to fixate on that one word. For one, I don’t do pet names. I think they’re stupid and juvenile. Second, I need to react angrily because him saying that one little word made me feel a very inconvenient way. Especially coming from a stranger.

“My apologies,” he says, almost bashfully. “What would you prefer I call you? Ma’am? Mrs.?”

I feel my face turn red. And also give him credit for sneakily asking if I was married. “Do not call me ma’am. And I’m not a Mrs. Not anymore.”

I watch as the grin grows on his annoyingly handsome face. “Then ‘Love’ it is.”

I start to protest—my mouth is open and everything—but for some reason I don’t. Why don’t I? No man calls Maeve Banks “Love.” Or any other name, for that matter.

I shouldn’t like it.

I don’t like it.

Except I kind of do.

No! I don’t! What the hell is wrong with me? I don’t get butterflies in my stomach over a pet name. Even if it does come with a sexy accent. Maybe it’s that accompanied by his bright, yet soft smile and broad shoulders that could pass as a brick wall. Or the leathery, smooth cologne that I’m starting to get a hint of.

I blame the Jack Daniels. I just had to have a double…

“Or,” he continues, sliding over a seat so there is only one between us. “I could call you by your actual name.”

The second not-awful pickup line snaps me back to my senses.

“You seem very nice, and thank you for the drink,” I begin. “But I’m going to be heading to my gate soon. We don’t need to go through that.”

He shakes his head as he takes a sip of his whiskey. “All flights are about to be grounded. Huge storm is about to pass through.”

I lift an eyebrow. “And how do you know that? Do you moonlight as a meteorologist?”

God, I need him to quit smiling like that. It’s a grin that’s filled with mischief and flirtation and charm.

It’s unsettling.

And panty melting.

“I don’t, but there’s a storm about to pass through in the next thirty minutes that’s going to last until morning. We aren’t going anywhere.”

Storm? I didn’t hear about any storm. I would have heard about a storm that could’ve grounded a plane, right?

“Don’t believe me?” he says, almost as if he can read my mind, which on its surface is alarming. “Check your mobile to see if I’m right.”

I give him one more glare to see if he’s fucking with me before I do just that.

And holy shit, he’s right.

Huge weather alerts. Email, text, and app notifications of my now-canceled flight. And just as I look up at him, still a bit confused, an announcement blares through the lounge.

“All passengers. Until further notice, all flights have been grounded. We’re sorry for the inconvenience.”

Fuck, inconvenient is right. Not only have I been away from home for too long, but it’s a Tuesday. It’s a school night. My sister Ainsley was staying with my son Jayce until I got home so he could be in his routine for school tomorrow. Now I’ll have to ask her to stay or hope that his dad can take him on short notice on his off weekend.

Fuck my life…

I start to grab my things while also firing off text messages to my sister, when I feel a hand on my arm.

“Don’t go.”

His smooth voice and that damn accent stop me in my tracks.

“What do you mean ‘don’t go’? I need to rebook my flight. See about my checked luggage. Change plans at home. Figure out a hotel.”

He shakes his head and signals for me to take back my seat. “Have another drink with me. We’ll figure everything out.”

I don’t sit back down, but I also don’t continue to walk as I intended. How is his stare freezing me in place? How can eyes be that green? It’s disarming.

So much so that I’m considering doing what he’s asking.

“Look at it out there,” he continues, clearly seeing that I’m wrestling with the decision. I look toward the terminal and see droves of travelers speed-walking past. “It’s a madhouse. We don’t need to be part of that. Book a flight from your mobile. Call the airline next week for a refund. Sit here and figure out any sort of plans at home. But do it from here, in the calm.”

He’s right about that. It is calm here, at least comparatively. “But what about a hotel? If no one is flying out tonight, the nearby hotels are going to be swamped.”

Like my words spring him into action, James Bond pops up from his barstool, takes out his wallet and drops a hundred-dollar bill on the bar and buttons his jacket.

“You’re right. Let’s go.”

“Excuse me, stranger danger. I don’t think so.” He might be hot, but I remember what they taught me in elementary school.

“All I’m suggesting is that we get a jump on a hotel. After everyone is done panicking about flights, they’ll realize they need a place to stay for the night. In the meantime, we’ll already be checked in and enjoying a drink at the hotel bar. And I just happen to know of one not far from here that makes a damn good gin martini.”

I wonder if he likes them dirty…

No! Stranger danger! Why do I keep forgetting that?

He holds out his hand, and I still haven’t moved because I have no idea what’s happening. I feel out of control, and that’s not a typical feeling for me.

Who is this man?

Why does his presence shake me?

And why am I considering going with him?

“I’m not sharing a room with you,” I say, needing to make sure he knows that this isn’t a gateway to a hookup.

“I never thought you were.” He leans down to grab his laptop bag then takes a few steps toward me and takes my carryon. “What do you say? Care to join me?”

Why am I considering this? He’s as stereotypical as any other man in here. Is it just the accent? Am I that weak of a woman? There’s something different about him that I can’t put my finger on.

“I don’t even know your name,” I say. “You’re a stranger at an airport bar. This is how true crime podcasts start. And I’m sorry, but no one will say I was a wonderful person who lit up a room when they’re asked about me for the reboot of Unsolved Mysteries .”

That should’ve scared him off. Between the ramble and the fact that my mind jumps to him making me disappear, he should be saying goodbye.

But he isn’t. He looks oddly shocked, though I’m not sure by what. It wasn’t the reaction I was expecting.

“You’re right. Not about the killing thing, but about the name.” He slings the bag over his shoulder and extends his hand. “I’m Logan. And, since I know that your name isn’t Love, what do you suggest I call you?”

It’s an easy question. Introducing myself to a man, or anyone really, shouldn’t be a big deal.

But for me it is.

I don’t date. I don’t flirt at bars. I barely make friends. I certainly don’t go with men I’ve just met to bars at hotels when it hasn’t been ruled out yet that they’re a serial killer.

Except the entire time we’ve been sitting here, my body and my reactions have betrayed my always logical brain.

And it’s about to do it again…because apparently I have zero self-control tonight. Or I just have that much of a James Bond kink.

“Maeve.”

The smile that forms on his face is slow and sends a tingle down my spine. “Maeve. That’s a beautiful name.”

Am I blushing? I don’t fucking blush. Sure, I might turn red from time to time when I’m trying to keep a secret, or I’ve been called out on something, but I don’t blush because of some flowery words from a man.

“Thank you.”

“Okay then, Maeve…” he cocks his head toward the exit of the bar. “What do you say? Join me away from the chaos?”