3. Nica
3
NICA
I suppressed a snort. “Fair question.”
The limo had just dropped me at this boutique inn. My car was parked in the lot, but I’d thanked the driver and walked inside like I could afford a room here. Even with the gifted dress and wedding-provided local chauffeur, my wallet had sobbed when I’d researched hotels on Long Island. So I sucked it up and prepared for a long night of driving. Good thing I’d vomited out all the booze and was sober again.
But while I was brushing my teeth in the hotel restroom, I double-checked the ferry schedule back to Connecticut. A cold stone settled in my stomach as I refreshed the page twice, sure I was mistaken. No way had I missed the weekend schedule that ended two hours earlier than on weekdays.
The answer to the guy’s question of why I was in a bar was simple: I had to sleep in my car and was in no hurry to do so. Why not stay warm and have a moment in this cozy inn before facing reality?
He, of course, did not need to know that. Finding him on the barstool down from me was either a blessing or a fateful trap. I wasn’t sure yet which.
I tossed my hair and looked him over. Yet again, my stomach dropped at how cute he was. Strawberry-blond hair combed back off his face. Those glasses gave him a serious, trustworthy look. Broad-as-hell shoulders stretched a white dress shirt despite the fact that the sleeves were too big on him.
Instead of explaining why I was in the bar, I redirected. “Did you have fun at the wedding?”
He didn’t fight it. “It was a great party, yeah. Did you? I saw you disappear.”
“Just went to get a breath of air.”
“Are you a friend of Audrey’s?”
“Uh. Yeah.” No, I made a career out of lusting over her husband. No way did this guy need to know that. Time to redirect again. “Did you dance?”
He snorted. “Yeah. I drank all those shooters and then did the Lindy Hop.”
That made me laugh. “Well, why not? You could have.”
One shoulder shrugged. “Could’ve, but you were nowhere to be found.”
I loved the cautious glance he tossed me. As if he was assessing whether his line was cute or corny. Both. Definitely both. “You would not have wanted to be seen with me. We’d have caused a scandal.” I said it all flirty. Like I was joking.
I was not at all joking.
But, ooh, his grin. I tried not to blush at the flutter in my gut when his teeth flashed. “In that case, good thing for the wedding that we didn’t.”
“Mm. Mm-hm.”
“Sure you don’t want a drink?”
I ordered a club soda with lime. When I’d thanked the bartender, I slid off the stool to my feet and jerked my head toward the booth in the corner. “No booze, thanks. But it’s drafty in here, and I’m cold. That spot looks warm. Want to join me?”
He seemed startled at the suggestion but nodded after a beat. I led us over with my shoulders back and my chin up.
Biding a little time won’t kill you. He’s cute. He seems into you. You’ve spent the last four hours lonely, out of your league, and awkward. All you do is hustle. Let yourself feel something different for a hot second.
I slid to the inside corner of the rounded leather bench. He joined me, sitting close enough that we were properly cozy. “Here’s to having no one around to scandalize.”
He smiled again. “Cheers to that. Although…”
“Yes?” I drawled. It was nice to flirt. I hadn’t flirted with anything but a camera in ages.
“Although I’m less concerned with scandal and more concerned with whether or not you’re enjoying this.”
I raised my eyebrow. “Does it seem like I’m not?”
He looked down and shrugged. “I don’t normally talk to women in bars. Doesn’t seem smart to presume.”
“You wouldn’t have offered me a drink if I hadn’t talked to you just now?”
“Nope.”
“Even though we kind of met earlier?”
“Nope.”
“How un-single-guy-in-a-bar of you.”
That earned me a soft laugh. “Maybe so. I tend to assume people prefer privacy.”
“I tend to prefer privacy, for what it’s worth.” I nudged his shoulder to get his gaze on me. “But this is nice.”
He studied me in a way that should’ve made me uncomfortable but didn’t. I had on my classic Mrs. Quentin Paris look of dramatic makeup and long, luscious hair. Even without the filters I used on every post, I knew that, outwardly, I seemed classy enough to belong in a place like this. Even if I never really felt it.
So his gaze didn’t make me cringe. It made me lean closer. “Well? Do you agree, stranger?”
“Do I… what?” he murmured.
“Is this nice or not?”
He nodded slowly.
“Let’s make a bet. I’m going to guess your name. If I’m wrong, I have to go order a blow job from that poor bartender.”
“And if you’re right?”
“You have to kiss me.”
His face froze except for his brows. They hit his hairline.
My pulse raced at my audacity, but dammit. I wanted something, anything, so long as it was different. I didn’t want to video anything or tell the world how hot someone was that I barely knew. I didn’t want to promote a product, think about metrics, or create new content. I didn’t want to pay rent, and I sure as shit didn’t want to sleep in my car.
For just a few moments, I wanted to be irresponsible and free.
“Go for it,” he whispered at last.
I grinned. “I bet your name is...”
“Yep, that’s it.” His words tumbled out as he leaned closer, one hand sliding to my cheek. He dusted a soft kiss on me while I wrapped my hand around his thick-as-hell bicep. I opened my eyes to see him pull back an inch and blink at me, clearly assessing my reaction.
My answer was to fit my mouth against his for a proper kiss. His jaw clenched for a brief moment before I heard him inhale sharply. Electricity shot through my body when he cradled my head and kissed me with a soft, wicked tease of his lips and tongue. My sober brain spun and then went silent, totally unprepared for the raw sexiness of this moment. I tried to keep up and kiss him back, but he had taken control. Instead, I moaned. The needy sound vibrated in my throat as my tongue tangled with his. It made his fingers tighten against my scalp just before he broke us apart.
“Jesus. Fuck. ” His ragged hiss hit my ears over my own shameless panting.
“Uh-huh,” I managed to agree.
We stared at each other. Simultaneously, we leaned in again for another series of searing kisses. He had me pinned against the booth, alternating between kissing my mouth and skimming his lips along my jaw. My fingers twined in his hair, tugging desperately to keep myself from climbing into his lap.
The old bartender’s subtle cough snapped the moment. I swallowed a moan as he threw himself against the booth. The nearly feral look in his eyes was certainly a mirror of my own. Holy shit, when was the last time I was so turned on?
My guy’s jaw slid side to side. “Um. I… I don’t know if I should ask this, but… Do you want to get out of here? We could go to my room for a while. Only if you want,” he hurried to add.
“I… uh, I need the restroom.” Not the most logical response, but I was completely unprepared for how he’d short-circuited me.
He nodded quickly. “Of course. Take your time. I’ll go upstairs. My room is two-twelve. If you decide you want to.”
I pressed my lips in a line and nodded. “Okay.”
He slid out of the booth, signed the bill at the bar, and glanced at me once more as he headed out. I didn’t move until I heard his feet on the stairs, but then I raced to the lobby bathroom to pee. My panties were soaked from his kiss. I cringed to hitch them back up but then hurried to wash my hands and stare at myself in the mirror.
Sleep in your car, or go upstairs and…
Sleep with a stranger. To avoid sleeping in your car. And then explain to him in the morning that you don’t have a room here. No room, no change of clothes, nothing but a beat- up little sedan in the parking lot. Oh, and not to mention that you don’t have your makeup with you, and you can’t sleep in your hair. In the light of day, you’ll look like an urchin in a rumpled designer dress. Like your momma’s daughter. A good-for-nothing from the wrong side of the tracks. He’ll probably check his wallet to make sure I didn’t steal from him. Not that I would. I am not my mother and never, ever will be.
I sighed. No way. I couldn’t do it. Not even for a kiss that good.
“I didn’t need the fairytale anyway,” I whispered to the mirror before grabbing my purse and damn near running to my car.
The ferry terminal was dark and silent when I pulled into the parking lot. I gazed at the building for a long moment and then reached behind me to undo my pushup bra and unclip the extensions that gave me my glorious dark mane. Then, I lowered my seat all the way down. Using my flimsy wrap as a blanket and my arm as a pillow, I shut my eyes and prayed for an early boat.
At least I had the memory of those few moments in the bar to keep me warm.
The long, low bleat of the ferry’s arrival jerked me from fitful sleep. I jolted upright to see people queuing up for the first ride of the day. My skin was clammy with the early autumn chill, so I fired the ignition and blasted the heat as I rolled forward onto the boat.
Coffee was essential but getting that bra back on without stripping down was impossible. For once, not having much of a rack came in handy. I fixed my raccoon eyes as best I could, hugged the wrap around me, and prayed everyone on board was too sleepy or hungover to notice my ghoulish ass skulking around.
No amount of ferryboat coffee could warm my bones once I stepped out into the breezy morning. I bought a large and clutched it tight. Huddled in a seat inside and trying not to shiver, I pulled out my phone.
Metrics from last night’s posts were strong. Summer was my slow season, so this was the most traffic I’d had in a while. I just wished it didn’t feel quite this slow. At least I had content from two hockey weddings to push for a few days. That ought to boost interest while the season got started.
“Mrs. Quentin Paris” had been a goof fueled by a night of drinking with my girlfriends two years ago. We’d gone to a Commodores game and wound up Googling players at the bar afterward. How could I have known that my posts would go viral as the new goalie proved to be a superstar?
I barely knew anything about algorithms or branding before. Now, it was my whole life—a little too much so. My girls didn’t call anymore. We’d all waitressed together at the casino. Their lives went on while mine took a different track. We were all too busy working to make time anymore.
It was nothing new. Friends had come and gone with jobs before. Especially when I’d left home and moved to Hartford. Even growing up, friends didn’t stick around long. Thank goodness for Vinny. My brother had been my best friend through long nights when Momma was either out doing god-knows-what or stoned off her ass in the trailer.
I stared into the coffee. Feeling this small and cold brought me back to being a teenager. Momma had gotten me a job as a catering waiter with her. She trained me for weeks. Not only on how to serve and blend into the background, but also how to fill our purses with leftover food before anyone noticed.
She knew how to lift a lot more than food from the patrons. I left home when she tried to teach me that trick.
My mother had addictions to feed on top of my brother and me. Once, when I was in elementary school, she came home with her bag nearly bursting after a catered event. But the leftovers weren’t that great, and they didn’t feed us more than a day or so. The next night, I heard her in her bedroom. When I peeked in, she was counting a stack of cash. Her eyes widened when she saw me, but she smiled.
“Tips were good, baby. Go play with your brother.”
So, I shuffled down the hall to Vinny’s room. He never minded much when I’d sneak in and sit on the floor, so long as I didn’t ask questions while the game was on. Through the years, we watched the Commodores like it was our job. On many long, lonely nights, it was.
I sucked in a deep breath and shook myself out of those ancient memories. You are not that girl. You are a self-made woman who just spent her Saturday schmoozing at a Hamptons wedding. You fit in just fine. None of them know shit about you.
My heavy eyelids closed. You’ll be home soon. Hot bath, curtains drawn, long sleep. Last night was important. The season is starting. You’ll figure out a way to stop fangirling Quentin and do something bigger. You’ll be fine. Meet with Bruce soon, get some fresh ideas, and keep going. You’re golden, babes.
My eyes stayed closed while I sipped again. Somewhere between dozing and dreaming about the bathtub in my little apartment, I pictured my fella from last night. Despite the perma-chill, my cheeks warmed.
My god, he was cute. My god, you were bold to hit on him!
… My god, you were a dick to ghost him like that.
Oh, but my toes curled when I recalled his fireball of a kiss.
Who cares? You’ll never see him again. He said it was my decision. So yeah, I kind of ghosted him. He’ll be fine. He’ll move on by tomorrow. And you have work to do.