Wedding Dashers

Chapter 2

82 hours until the wedding

Crying in public is the worst.

It’s gotta be a top five Most Embarrassing Thing. Just behind accidentally calling your teacher mom and clogging the toilet at your boyfriend’s house. Both of which have happened to me. So, in a way, this is very on brand.

I cover my face, pretending to suffer from allergies—hay fever if anyone asks—when I notice there’s someone standing behind me.

Great. They’re going to offer me a tissue or something. Can’t they just let me be a hot mess in peace?

“Excuse me?”

“I’m fine,” I start to say just as I look up to see it’s the same man from before. Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Handsome.

His gaze meets mine and his eyes widen, clearly embarrassed. “Oh, uh, sorry, I…” His voice stops then restarts. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I say again, but the second fine is even less convincing than the first. I wonder if he’s coming to return another stray tampon. Which is nice and all, but, sir, please read the room.

“I didn’t drop another tampon, did I?” I ask.

“What?” His brow furrows with genuine confusion before shaking his head no . “Actually.” He clears his throat, gaze skirting to my luggage. “You took my suitcase…by mistake, I think,” he adds, like he’s weighing the possibility I arranged that entire spectacle just so I could steal his luggage. “So if I could get it back that’d be great.”

I frown, eyes darting down to my own suitcase…which is, in fact, not mine. It’s the same black with silver buttons, but this one is much nicer. It has leather accents and a plated luggage tag.

My face warms. “Oh, sorry. My bad.” I roll the suitcase toward him, and he hands me mine. “I guess I was distracted,” I say, tilting my chin toward the reception desk.

“No worries. I assumed it might throw a wrench in your travel plans when you discovered the twenty pounds of cocaine in there.”

I freeze. “W-what?”

His expression expands into a grin. “Kidding.”

I try to laugh, but it comes out more like a cross between a squeak and a sputter.

“Well, thanks,” I say, gesturing to the suitcase. “And sorry again.”

I expect him to leave, but he just stands there, studying me with a mix of pity and intrigue until he says, “I couldn’t help but overhear what happened. Sorry about the room.”

“Me too.”

“Do you have anywhere else to go?”

“Not really.”

He nods then glances away, and I follow his gaze to the window where it’s now pouring rain. Because of course it is.

“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath. “This is really not my day.”

“Could be worse.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “Could it?”

He looks me over with calculated interest and an unexpected rush of heat diffuses across my skin. “I mean, at least you won’t have to wear my clothes for the next week,” he says. “I don’t think your tiny frame would fit into anything of mine.”

“Well, I could say the same to you. There’s a green dress in there that I’m positive you don’t have the legs for.”

He lets out a surprised laugh and I notice he has dimples. Just like Carter. But while Carter is firmly in the cute category, Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Handsome is distinctly hot.

He has eyes that remind me of spilled ink and a sharp jawline dotted with meticulous stubble, the kind that probably requires fancy shaving products and an extra thirty minutes in front of the mirror.

If I were sketching him, I’d use sharp strokes for the angle of his jaw and softer lines for the creases under his eyes. I’d smudge my charcoal pencil to darken his gaze and lightly shadow the hollow in his throat. If I still sketched, that is, something I haven’t done since Carter and I went on a break.

“Can I buy you a drink at the bar?” he asks after a beat.

My eyes widen, caught off guard. “You want to buy me a drink?”

“It seems like the least I can do after…” He gestures vaguely toward the reception desk.

“I’m the one who took your luggage. Shouldn’t I be the one buying you a drink?”

His mouth quirks. “Are you offering?”

My stomach gives a traitorous flutter and I bite my lip, letting my gaze trail back toward the door. “I sort of have to find somewhere to sleep. Also,” I say, shooting him a conspiratorial look, “I don’t usually drink with strange men I don’t know in foreign countries.”

He considers me a moment before sticking out his hand. “I can’t do anything about the foreign country part, but I’m Jack. My last meal on death row would be pizza. Boxers, not briefs. And I once cheated on a high school history test and was so consumed by guilt that I told the teacher and got ten weeks of detention.” His face ripens into a smile. “See? Now you know everything about me.”

“That’s everything?”

“Well, not everything . I’ve graciously left a few topics out so that we’ll have something to talk about later.”

I look down at his outstretched hand, considering it before giving it a firm shake. “Ada,” I say. “And I’m not telling you which kind of underwear I prefer.”

He coughs out a laugh.

Not going to lie, he has a nice laugh. It’s deep and full-bodied, and something inside me stirs at the sound of it. I want to make him laugh again.

“So, one beer?” he asks.

I can’t say I’m not tempted. He’s attractive and charming-ish, and it’s not like I have anywhere else to go. Besides, after the day I’ve had, I could do with a free beer. In fact, maybe this is my consolation prize for World’s Shittiest Day. I get to have a drink with a hunk before sleeping on the cold plastic of an airport bench.

“Why not?” I say with a shrug. “It’s not like this day could get any worse.”

“Ahh, very good. I’m glad you’re keeping your expectations low,” he says, nodding sagely.

I follow Jack to a sparsely decorated hotel bar with leather booths and dim mood lighting. We pick an empty booth and Jack orders us both lagers.

The drinks arrive and I take a sip. It’s bitter and I wince as I swallow.

“So, where are you from? Seattle?” he asks.

My gaze narrows. “How can you tell?”

His lips curl upward, halfway between a smirk and a smile. “You’re wearing a University of Washington sweatshirt. It was worth a guess.”

I look down at the purple and gold logo on my front. “Right. Yeah, I’m from Seattle.”

“I grew up near Seattle. They have…” He looks me up and down, gaze lingering just a beat too long on my lips. “Nice trees.”

I blush. Is he hitting on me?

“Really?” I ask. “Nice trees?”

The corners of his mouth twitch with thinly veiled amusement. “It’s the first thing that came to mind.”

“And where do you live now if not Seattle?”

“Portland.”

“I hear they also have…” I drag my eyes up his tall frame, pausing to let my gaze linger the same way his did. “Nice trees.”

He laughs, then sets his elbows on the table, propping his chin up with his hands. “Is this your first time in London?”

“First time out of the country if you don’t count spring break in Cancun,” I tell him.

“London is a great city. Fun nightlife. Amazing food.” He pauses, brows scrunching like he’s just realized something. “Not many trees though.”

I laugh. “I thought British food was supposed to suck. Isn’t it all boiled potatoes and mushy peas?”

“British food can be good if you know where to look, but the international food scene here is amazing.”

I haven’t eaten in hours, not since the bag of airplane pretzels I had mid-flight, and the thought of any food is enough to make my mouth water. Right on cue, my stomach growls.

Jack’s eyebrows lift. “You should feed that thing. You want a burger?”

“I’m fine,” I lie. He’s already been nice enough; he doesn’t need to feed me too.

“I’m hungry too. We should eat,” he says with a decisive dip of the chin before ordering us both burgers and chips.

“Thanks, you’re really nice.” I pause, frowning. “You’re not gonna try to kidnap me like in that Liam Neeson movie, are you?”

His eyes flash and he cracks out a laugh. “I don’t think you’d have agreed to have a beer with me if you thought I was going to try to sell you into an international sex trafficking ring.”

I give a conciliatory nod. “True. I’m just wondering why you’re being so nice to me.”

“I felt bad about the hotel situation, and well…” Jack’s eyes lift to meet mine. “I thought you were pretty cute.”

I freeze, beer halfway to my lips. “You thought I was cute? Which part? The tears? Or the overall demeanor of pathetic-ness?”

“The purple hair actually.”

I laugh, then run a self-conscious hand over my head as though just realizing it’s there.

“It doesn’t normally look like this,” I tell him.

“I figured you didn’t come out of the womb with purple hair.”

“I just mean it’s a new look for me.”

He looks me over and my skin prickles under the full attention of his gaze. “I like it,” he says after a pause. “Very sexy mermaid .”

My cheeks sizzle.

Now I know he’s flirting with me. But I’m sort of okay with it. He’s nice, and attractive. Why shouldn’t a nice, attractive guy flirt with me? After all, Carter and I are on a break.

And yet, as flattering as it is to think about a handsome stranger showing interest in me, flirting is about my limit. I don’t want to see other people . Or explore my options . I don’t want to work out my frustrations in the curves of a stranger’s body. Or whatever it is people do on breaks. I just want things with Carter and me to go back to normal.

Once the food arrives, I reach for the saltshaker. I pour a little pile into my palm and toss it over my left shoulder. Jack stares at me, eyes wide.

“What was that?” he asks.

“To ward off the bad luck.”

“You’re superstitious?”

“I prefer proactively cautious .”

I never used to consider myself a superstitious person. I’m much more inclined to see “luck” as a matter of perception rather than the work of nefarious forces in the universe, but after my credit card got stolen three times last month, I got much more proactively cautious about things. I saged my car. I bought a rabbit’s foot. I even started meditating. But a whole lot of good that’s done me.

“Is that why you had the rabbit’s foot in your purse?” Jack asks. “For luck?”

“I just figure that if there’s something I can do to change my luck, I should at least give it a try, right?”

“And you believe that will work?”

“I’m getting a free dinner right now, aren’t I?”

He cracks a smile. It’s a nice smile, the kind that fills his whole face.

“So, where are you headed?” he asks, popping a fry into his mouth.

“My sister’s wedding.”

“Alone?”

I smack my forehead with my palm. “Shit! I knew I forgot something! A date!”

He laughs. “I mean, if you’re going to your sister’s wedding, why aren’t you traveling with your family?”

“I was supposed to.” I pluck a fry from my plate. “But I realized too late that my passport expired and had to expedite a new one that didn’t arrive until yesterday.”

“Shit. You really do have bad luck.”

“It’s honestly a miracle I haven’t been struck by lightning.”

“Better stay away from metal rods to be safe.”

Our eyes catch, twin grins snaking across our mouths.

“I’m going to a wedding too.” He gestures to the garment bag perched atop his suitcase. “I’m the best man.”

“I’m sorry.”

He reaches for his beer, frowning. “Why?”

“Because anyone who would make all their friends and family fly halfway around the world to take part in ritualized self-aggrandizement is seriously disturbed.”

Jack’s eyes widen and I can tell what sounded like a joke in my head, did in fact not sound like one out loud.

“Sorry,” I say, wincing. “Did that sound as bitter as I think it did?”

He tilts his chin, eyes flickering between amusement and curiosity. “Is it the ritualized self-aggrandizement that bothers you, or this particular wedding?”

I fidget with my napkin. “I don’t usually have a problem with weddings, but…”

“But you’re not looking forward to this wedding?” he finishes for me.

“Not exactly.”

Jack’s eyes dance to my ring finger, then back to me.

I do the same to him. No ring.

“Bad breakup?” he asks.

“That obvious?”

He laughs in confirmation. “Let me guess. He was supposed to be your date to the wedding?”

I arch an eyebrow, impressed. “You’re good.”

He sits back in his seat, perusing me with interest. “So what happened?”

I pick up my fork, then set it back down again. “You really want to know about my boyfriend?”

“Take it from me, there’s no one better to vent to about your personal problems than a stranger at a bar.”

“But I thought you weren’t a stranger anymore? After all, I know what kind of underwear you’re wearing.”

The corners of his mouth curl upward. “Go on, tell me about the jerk.”

“He’s not a jerk,” I say quickly. “He’s a great guy.”

“But he isn’t here?”

“No, he’s not.”

“Why not?”

I hesitate, not sure I want to spill my guts to this guy I just met. But then again, who cares if I tell him? It’s not like I’ll ever see him again. He’s the burner account equivalent of a person. Right?

“We’ve been together eight years,” I say, reaching for another fry. “And I thought we were going to get married. Instead, he suggested we take a break for three months so we can reevaluate where we stand .”

Jack’s eyes widen. “ Eight years ?”

“We met sophomore year of college.”

“Damn. That’s like, what? A third of your life with the same guy?”

I look away, not meeting his eye. “Something like that.”

“Did you know he was having doubts?”

“Not really,” I say, feeling the familiar churning sensation, like my insides are turning to cheese curds as we speak.

The truth is I’d known things weren’t perfect between us. Especially in the months since Sleeve It to Me closed when I didn’t feel like doing anything that wasn’t sitting on the couch, binging Netflix, and feeling sorry for myself.

After the business closed, Carter was understanding, but over time that understanding started to wane. And I got it. I wasn’t exactly a delight to be around. But I assumed it was just a rough patch. Certainly something we could move past, until one night we were making dinner and Carter came out of nowhere and asked to take a break.

He said something about wanting to have other experiences. That since my business went under, things had been strained. That he wasn’t happy.

Now I’m not sure what I want anymore , he’d finally said. But all I’d heard was that he wasn’t sure about me anymore. About us.

At first, I was angry. How could he do this to me? To us? After everything?

I moved to New York for him when he got accepted into Parson’s for photography. Then back to Seattle nine months later when he decided it wasn’t for him. I supported him through every career change, transition, and switch, from marine biology to architecture. But my business failing was a bridge too far for us? So much so that he needed to completely reevaluate our entire relationship?

I was pissed, and more than a little betrayed. But I also didn’t want to break up.

It was hard enough losing the business and my relationship with my sister. I didn’t think I could handle losing Carter too. Not when my life already felt so unstable. So I agreed to the break, hoping that in a few weeks, when it’s time to talk again, Carter will want to get back together and everything will go back to the way it was. Like none of this ever happened.

“So how long has it been since the break started?” Jack asks, voice drawing me back.

I dunk a fry in some ketchup and twirl it around. “Two and a half months.”

“Do you think you’ll…?”

“Get back together?” I finish for him before popping the fry in my mouth.

He nods.

That’s the thing. I’m not sure what Carter is going to say when the three months are up. Will he want to get back together? Or will he want to break up for good? The question swims inside me like I’ve swallowed something wriggly.

“I don’t know,” I admit. “But the waiting sucks. Like being stuck in some kind of relationship purgatory. Shouldn’t he know if he wants to be with me by now?”

I search Jack’s face, like maybe the answers to the questions that have plagued me for weeks might be printed across this stranger’s forehead.

“I’m not really a good person to come to for relationship advice,” he says.

“But you’re a guy.”

“I am,” he confirms.

“So how long would it take you to know if someone was the one ? Would eight years not be enough?”

Jack’s expression molds into a pensive frown. “I guess it depends on the person…and if you believe in things like the one .”

I nod, considering his point. Because I do believe in the one .

And I always thought Carter was it . My first kiss. My first love. My first everything . And I assumed that a white dress and a fancy dinner with a choice of chicken or salmon would be in our future.

Carter and I have always been that couple . The couple everyone assumed would end up together. Friends would ask how I wanted Carter to propose or if Carter and I wanted kids someday, like our future together was guaranteed. A matter of when not if . And why wouldn’t it be? We’d been together forever. We even lived together. Wasn’t marriage the obvious trajectory? But four years together turned into six, and six turned into eight, and still no ring.

I told myself it was because we were busy, that life was hectic and weddings were expensive, and when the time was right, he’d propose. But whenever we were alone and the m word came up, Carter would dodge questions or say things like, I like how things are , or Why do we need that figured out right now?

I tried not to let it bother me. After all, things with Carter were good. We had a nice life together. He bought me roses on Valentine’s Day and held my hand at parties. Who cared if we didn’t have a ring and a date yet?

But deep down I did care.

Not just because I wanted the ring and the dress and the party, but because I wanted the certainty. The security. The promise of forever. I wanted to know that Carter and I were endgame. That the last eight years meant something. Something that fit into the sparkly movie version of our relationship in my head.

A version where Carter and I end up together. Where in two weeks, when the three months are up, he tells me I’m the love of his life and it was all a mistake. A version where he pulls out a little box and begs me to marry him and everyone ooh s and aww s and says, Yes, of course , we always knew you two were meant to be together .

Despite everything that’s happened, it’s a version I still want to believe in, because without it, I’m not sure what else I have.

“It just sucks,” I say, picking at my food. “I know I’m supposed to be happy for my sister, but it’s hard not to feel resentful when the guy I was dating for eight years wants to take a break, while she’s marrying someone she hardly knows.”

Jack’s eyes thrum with interest. “Your sister doesn’t know the guy she’s marrying?”

“Sort of. It’s not like an arranged marriage or anything,” I say quickly. “But they got engaged really fast. Like Pam and Tommy fast. And I’m pretty sure the whole thing is going to blow up in her face.”

“You don’t think he’s the one ?” Jack asks.

“I mean…” I scrunch up my face. “Let’s just say that if my sister is a Godiva truffle, this guy is the two-year-old, unwrapped Hershey’s Kiss you find under the seat of your car.”

Jack’s dark eyes crinkle with laughter. “Ouch. That’s harsh.”

“This is my baby sister we’re talking about. No one is good enough,” I tell him. “Except for maybe Tom Holland. Or Harry Styles.”

“Fair enough. Harry Styles can wear the hell out of a wide-legged trouser.”

“Damn right he can,” I say with a firm nod.

“So, this Mr. Unwrapped Hershey’s Kiss—” He pauses. “God, that sounded dirty, didn’t it?”

“A little bit,” I say, pinching my thumb and forefinger together.

“So, your sister’s fiancé,” he tries again. “How well do you know this guy?”

“Not well, considering they practically just met.”

The first time I heard about Collin, he was some guy my sister was casually texting, and the next thing I know, BAM , they’re picking out monogrammed hand towels, preparing to mold their lives together in holy matrimony. All in the space of three months.

“But you know you don’t like him?” Jack asks.

“I know enough,” I say stiffly.

I only know two things about Collin, my sister’s husband-to-be:

1) He’s almost ten years older than her. Thirty-three to her twenty-four, and

2) He’s a cosmetic plastic surgeon, aka breast implants, which somehow doesn’t feel like a real doctor to me. If he’s ever on a plane and someone shouts, Is there a doctor on board? what’s he gonna do? Say, Sorry, I can’t save her life, but she’d look great with double Ds ?

“But maybe once you get to know him, you’ll like him,” Jack says.

“Doubtful.” I dunk another fry. “There are too many red flags. Like, apparently, the guy who’s his best man is a total pig.”

“And is he?”

“No clue, never met him,” I say, thankful I haven’t yet had to make the acquaintance of Collin’s best friend, Houghton. “But my sister says he’s some kind of player who’s turned more tricks than Houdini, and you know what they say about the company you keep.” I give Jack a knowing look.

Jack picks up his beer, considers it, then sets it down again. “You seem to be making a lot of assumptions about people you don’t know very well.”

“Trust me, you’d understand if you’d seen the guys she’s brought home over the years.”

When Allison was nineteen she dated a twenty-five-year-old with questionable piercings and a felony. A few years later she dropped out of college to go on tour with her then–drummer boyfriend whom she eventually caught with another girl on the tour bus. Then there was Bradley, the guy I still can’t think about without wanting to punch a wall.

I’d say Allison has bad luck with men, except this is a pattern with her. Always the same thing. Instant attraction. Big declarations. A short fuse that burns out a little too quickly followed by a messy, explosive breakup. Which is when I usually step in to pick up the pieces. Like I always have.

“But they’ve spent a shit ton of money on the whole thing,” I continue. “So now I have no choice but to put on the hideous green bridesmaid dress that totally gives me a uni-boob and pretend to be happy for them, I guess.”

Jack’s left eyebrow arches into a parenthesis. “A uni-boob?”

“Yeah, like it looks like I have one giant glob of boob instead of two.”

“A giant glob of boob,” he repeats as though it were a fascinating scientific discovery. “So, what are you gonna do?”

“About the uni-boob? I don’t know, but with the right bra—”

“No, I mean about the wedding.”

I go back to playing with my food, no longer feeling hungry. “There’s nothing to do,” I tell him. “It’s my little sister’s wedding, I have to suck it up and plaster on a smile.”

“But have you told her any of your concerns? I’m sure she’d want to hear what you think.”

I push my food to one side of my plate, then back again. “Trust me, she doesn’t care what I think.”

“I doubt that. You’re her sister.”

My eyes dip into my lap. That’s the problem. I did tell Allison what I thought. I told her I thought she was rushing into things, that she was making a mistake.

But we’re in love , she’d said, exasperated. You don’t understand.

But I did understand. I understand that she’s been in love with every loser, asshole, cheater, and liar she’s ever dated. I also understand that Collin’s not some flavor of the month that she can easily discard when she gets bored or things go south. She’s actually marrying this guy. And when the whole thing undoubtedly blows up in her face, it won’t just be another breakup. It will be divorce. A very expensive divorce.

But Allison doesn’t care what I think. Something she made clear when she told me that if I wasn’t going to support her and Collin, I might as well not show up to the wedding.

The memory feels heavy in my gut, like I’ve been drinking cement instead of beer.

“So, what’s the couple like at the wedding you’re going to?” I ask, eager to change the subject. “Do you think they’ll last?”

“Not sure. The bride’s sort of…” Jack frowns, like he’s trying to make up his mind in real time. “Intense,” he decides on. “And very judgmental. But my friend says he loves her, so…” His voice trails off and he gives me a look like whatcha gonna do?

“What did you get them as a gift?” I ask, thinking of the incredibly lackluster set of wineglasses currently being shipped to Allison and Collin’s condo.

“A gift card,” he says.

“Wow, so thoughtful,” I tease. “I’m sure they’ll cherish it for generations to come.”

“Call me cynical, but I’d rather buy them a gift card than an overpriced Crock-Pot that outlives their marriage.”

My eyes double in size. “And I thought I was pessimistic. I’m at least rooting for my sister and her groom to work out.” I pause, making a face. “But I suppose some of that can be chalked up to selfish intentions. I so don’t want to have to do this again for her second marriage.”

That earns me a laugh. “For your sake, I hope they make it work.”

“I’ll cheers to that.” I reach for my beer.

He grins then reaches for his own.

“We have to make eye contact, you know,” he says, glass hovering midair.

“Why?”

“If we don’t, we’ll be destined for seven years of bad sex.”

“Did you just make that up?”

“It’s a real thing, I swear.”

“Well, in that case, we’d better not risk it.”

“Better safe than sorry,” he agrees, holding my gaze—an unmistakable heat behind his eyes.

“To making it work,” I say, lifting my glass higher.

“And beating the odds.”

Eyes locked, we clink our glasses and drink.

I’m not sure if it’s the half a glass of beer I’ve consumed or the dim bar lighting hitting his jaw just right, but somehow Jack’s gotten even more attractive. All strong-boned and honey-eyed, like someone’s placed an Instagram filter over his face.

I sit back in my seat, putting a finger to my chin.

“What?” he asks.

“I can’t decide if you’re a rom-com hero or the villain in a Lifetime movie,” I say.

Jack hums with laughter. “Depends on who you ask.”

“That’s so not what I want to hear from the random stranger I’ve just told all my secrets to.”

“All your secrets?”

“Well, not all my secrets.”

He props his elbows up on the table, shirtsleeves rolled up, and I find my gaze lingering a beat too long on the network of veins in his forearms.

“I’m sure we’re all the villain in someone’s Lifetime movie,” he says.

“Damn. Really makes you think.” I reach for my beer. “If I’m the villain, I at least hope I’m the Miranda Priestly–style villain with great shoes and a Manhattan brownstone.”

He laughs and takes a swig of his own beer. A small line of foam clings to his upper lip and he wipes it away with the back of his hand.

“This might sound weird,” I say, setting my glass back down with a clang . “But this is like the best thing that’s happened to me all week.”

“Must have been a shitty week.”

I grin. He’s not wrong.

“Mine hasn’t been too great either.” He pauses, eyes lingering like I’m a Renaissance painting he could look at for hours and still find new details in. “But tonight isn’t too bad.”

I blush. Even if he’s just a stranger I’ll never see again, it feels nice to be seen. Noticed. I can’t remember the last time Carter looked at me like that.

We slip into an easy silence, and I look past Jack to the window where it’s raining harder than ever. And getting dark. I should probably figure out where I’m going to stay tonight, but it’s warm and cozy in here and I’m not quite ready to face my fate yet.

Jack follows my gaze. “It hasn’t let up, has it?”

“No, it hasn’t.”

“So where are you planning to sleep?”

“I’ll figure something out,” I say, waving my hand like I’m swatting away an invisible fly.

Jack’s shoulders stiffen, and I can feel him trying and hesitating to respond. Finally, he says, “I hope I’m not being too forward, but if you want, you can stay in my room tonight.”

My eyes widen at the offer.

I shouldn’t. I’m a girl traveling alone. It’s a bad idea.

But I also don’t want to sleep on a plastic bench.

I drum my nails against the tabletop, thinking. “I don’t know…”

“Is it because I’m a stranger?” he asks.

“I mean, yeah ,” I say with a nervous laugh. “I’ve seen Dateline .”

“I promise I’m not a creep.”

“Which is exactly what a creep would say,” I point out.

“Do you want to see my ID or something?” Jack reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wallet, but I put out a hand to stop him.

“No, it’s fine,” I say, heat creeping into my cheeks. I’m being silly. It’s not like he’s a serial killer. I mean probably not, anyway.

I take a long sip of my beer, stalling while I weigh the wisdom of accepting the offer.

On the one hand, he’s a stranger. But on the other hand, if I sleep in his room, I can take a hot shower and presumably sleep in a real bed.

Besides, he’s totally respectful. And fit. And as Elle Woods famously noted, exercise gives you endorphins, and endorphins make you happy, and happy people just don’t murder their husbands!

Maybe it’s the beer, or the warmth hovering behind his eyes, or simply that I’m starved for a little bit of kindness, but I feel like I can trust him.

“Okay,” I say after a beat. “And here I was just trying to get a free drink.”

The corners of his mouth lift. “Happy to be of service.”

“You know, I’m really glad I met you tonight,” I tell him.

He smiles. “Me too.”

I wonder if my luck is finally starting to turn.