chapter one Hello Awkward, My Old Friend
chapter one
Hello Awkward, My Old Friend
I didn’t expect to meet someone like him here. He should be downtown at that fancy martini bar where the lawyers and finance
bros gather, not in some random Irish pub with wan yellow lighting, sticky floors, and an ancient jukebox playing modern country.
The man sitting in front of me is far too handsome. Bronzed skin boasting of either an unlimited membership at a tanning salon
or a recent tropical vacation. Thick, wavy brown hair pushed back over his forehead for a covetous amount of volume. Blue
eyes framed by long lashes, set by brows that make him look amicable and confident, like he could befriend anyone in the room.
A wide, sharp jawline—no beard to hide a lack of chin, either. Nope, his chin is excellent. Captain America level, even.
His sense of style is also on point, if a bit too dressy for our location.
His linen button-up shirt is crisp, paired with dark-wash denim jeans, and the Rolex on his wrist screams good taste and money.
He probably has a good job. People at his job probably like him there, too.
Charisma and charm waft from him, along with whatever expensive sandalwood cologne he’s wearing.
On top of that, he actually seems nice. He’s a good conversationalist, asking polite yet interesting questions, focusing his attention on my eyes rather than the
cleavage I deliberately have on display. He’s far too perfect—too close to the type of guy I’d always imagined, hoped, I’d
end up with. I’ve been talking to him for all of twenty minutes and can already picture a tiny baby cradled in his big hands,
imagine his smile looking over his shoulder as he pushes a child on a swing, popping a bottle of wine while I relax and he
cooks me dinner.
Seriously, this guy is bad news. I shouldn’t even be talking to him.
I obviously intended to meet someone when I came out tonight; it’s evident by how I dressed—faded high-waisted jeans paired with a scoop neck crop top to tease
my cleavage, my freshly dyed blond hair straightened and layered to frame my face, and the good makeup highlighting my features, including that expensive red lipstick I got on my birthday three years ago. I’m on the prowl,
and this pub is my hunting ground. The only problem is, I didn’t expect to see someone like him here. Someone that checked all my boxes.
Someone that would get my hopes up.
I should be flirting with one of the other pub patrons. Someone whose hair doesn’t belong in a magazine, whose chin doesn’t
jut out like a Marvel hero’s, whose banter doesn’t make me delight at every turn of phrase. The self-preserving part of me
is yelling to get out of here while I still can, before it’s too late, to retreat to my couch with my sweatpants and my dog.
That’s what I’ve done every single night since moving back to Langley. But I can’t live in my safe little bubble forever.
Eventually, I have to come out of it.
It’s been months since I’ve felt the touch of another person. If I want that to change, then I have to come out to the real world, converse with real people.
Speaking of which. I turn my attention back to the guy chatting me up. What was his name . . . started with an O. I’m pretty sure. Oscar? No. Oliver. Hmm.
It doesn’t matter. The less I know about him, the better. As perfect as he is—and as good a husband and father as I’m sure
he’d make—I’m not in the right place in my life to meet someone like him. I came here for one reason and one reason only:
to feel the comfort of another human body and give my vibrator a break.
I smile and nod at all the right moments as he talks, not bothering to commit anything he’s telling me to memory. I’m not
here to get to know him, or for him to get to know me. I want one thing from him and one thing only. The problem is, it’s
been so long since I’ve done this I’ve almost forgotten how. I need to transition this conversation into something more salacious
as soon as possible. Every moment we’re together increases the risk of something terrible happening. It’s time to make my
move.
“So, what is it you do, Aubrey?” Perfect Guy asks, the low thrum of his voice warm and enticing.
“I work for a non-profit,” I offer, swirling the tip of my finger over the rim of my glass.
Perfect Guy leans forward, intrigued. “That sounds interesting. It’s rare you meet someone who works for a non-profit. In
our capitalist society, we—”
I reach across the space with my finger cooled from my icy glass and press it to his lips, halting his sentence midway through.
Perfect Guy blinks a few times, stunned into silence.
Standing from my barstool, I step toward him so that I’m nestled between the thick thighs of a man who evidently values never skipping leg day.
I trail my finger from his lips, past the jut of his chin, to his throat, down to his chest, pausing at the top button of his shirt, which I toy with.
Perfect Guy’s eyes widen and his throat bobs from this quick change of pace, but he does nothing to slow me down.
I bat my eyelashes. “As much as I’d love to keep talking to you, I have to work tomorrow and was planning on going to bed
early.”
Perfect Guy’s brows lower incrementally, ready for me to let him down nice and easy, leaving him to his whisky and the crooning
vocals of Jelly Roll.
I bite my lip in a well-rehearsed motion. “Care to join me?”
We decide to go to his place instead of mine since he lives down the street. After paying our tab, he guides me outside the
pub with his hand on my low back. Even in my heels he’s taller than me. Around six feet, I’d guess, which is yet another reason
why I should have politely turned down his offer to buy me a drink. Every step closer brings a heightened anticipatory anxiety.
It’s not like I haven’t done this before—gone home with a handsome man that I barely know and am essentially entrusting with
my life in exchange for generally mediocre sex—it’s the inevitability of everything going wrong. How wrong it can go, however,
is still a mystery. I hold on to the little flicker of hope in my chest that I’m wrong and that this night, this person, will
be different.
The night air is cool and crisp, smelling like flowers and the promise of summer. Streetlamps illuminate tidy Tudor-style
houses, neatly kept front gardens, and well-swept sidewalks whose cracks I avoid with each step. Perfect Guy leads me around
a corner and halfway down the next block before turning and gesturing at the house before us.
His home is just as charming and immaculate as he is.
It’s two stories high and inset from the street with a small rectangular front yard boxed in with a wrought-iron fence, a covered front porch framed by large bushes, and painted a respectable taupe but with the surprising accent of a navy-blue door.
My heels click as I climb the wooden steps to his porch. His keys jingle as he unlocks the door, the hinges squeak as it swings
open, and I step inside. Perfect Guy flips on the light and I get a view of his tidy space. Directly to my front is a staircase
leading to the second floor. On my left is a fireplace, the television mounted above it, and a bookshelf laden with all manner
of texts and novels beside it. In front of the fireplace is a brown suede couch with a cozy-looking throw and a few colourful
pillows. The floor is the colour of warm walnut and the walls are decorated with interesting abstract art. Everything is so
clean, and not in the way that he hires someone to come in and mop his floors and scrub his toilets—which I’m sure he does—but
in the small ways that boasts of a person who takes pride in their home: dishes in the sink washed and stacked, counters void
of clutter, shoes and jackets hidden away in a closet.
I have no idea what the hell Perfect Guy does for a living, and I don’t plan on finding out, but in order for him to live
in this neighbourhood in a recently updated home with a backyard means he either makes a lot of money or he inherited some. Once
more I remind myself that I should have chosen someone, anyone, else. He is exactly the type of guy I always envisioned myself with, and I’m nowhere near ready to be meeting someone like
him.
Perfect Guy sets his keys in a bowl on a side table by the door, the sound jarring me back to the present. “I don’t have gin,
but I do have a decent collection of wine. Do you prefer white or red? Or whisky? If you’re a novice whisky drinker, I have
a bottle of Gretzky that’s light on the palate and—”
Once more I cut him off, but not with my finger.
I launch myself at him like a spider monkey, gripping the lapels of his shirt and pulling my lips to his.
He doesn’t react, his body going still and rigid.
I don’t relent, pressing my taut body against his so hard that he stumbles backward until he’s sandwiched between me and the front door, which spurs him into action.
His lips begin moving with mine as they find balance and rhythm together, our tongues tentatively seeking and finding purchase with hot, wet slides.
His hands make their way to my waist, then further down until they’re cupping my ass, which he gives a delicious squeeze.
A gruff note of appreciation resonates through his chest, and I send a silent prayer of thanks to my favourite fitness YouTuber for teaching me how to do a proper RDL.
Perfect Guy pushes against me, taking charge. Suddenly it’s me with my back against the door, and he’s hoisting me up by the
thighs and wrapping my legs around his waist. Our lips unlock for a moment as we regard one another, panting shallow breaths,
noses nuzzling, pupils wide and wild. He’s asking me if I’m sure, if I want to proceed. I respect him for his consideration.
In response, I kiss him once more, unrelenting in my ferocity, and he matches my pace. He twists around and carries me up
the stairs, and it’s incredibly sexy that he’s not even winded when we get to the top. Not skipping leg day, or cardio, apparently.