1. 1 #2
His clothes, though plain, have a polished, high-end quality to them.
The watch on his wrist, a Rolex, I think, gleams under the low light, and those ostrich boots?
Definitely not cheap. While I might be dressed in a tee and jeans with my hair tossed in a ponytail, the last traces of my old life still cling to me.
Hell, my purse alone cost almost as much as my monthly mortgage payment.
Note to self: Look up what used luxury bags are going for on eBay.
I’m still mulling over the contrast between us and everyone else in this place when he interrupts my train of thought. “What made your year so tough?”
Angling my head at him, I gauge his intention. Does he want to know, or is he making polite small talk to compensate for his initial rudeness? His eyes meet mine, and his interest seems genuine.
I scramble for an honest answer, but one that won’t scare him off. This is the first conversation I’ve had with a person who didn’t look at me with pity, so I seek a harmless, yet truthful, response.
“For starters, I can’t sleep. Haven’t slept through the night in months. I wake up riddled with anxiety, and I can’t go back to sleep for hours.”
“Not trying to reinvent the wheel, but have you tried focusing on something boring, like counting sheep or reciting your grocery list?” His voice is low and sexy as hell. It reminds me of hot honey. Smooth and flowing. Comforting. With just enough rasp to his Southern twang to make it spicy.
“Sort of. It’s kind of stupid, but I usually wake up with a song running through my head, and I focus on it. Try to remember all the words, analyze the lyrics, think about what facts I know about the band, that kind of thing.” My fingers trace the stem of my plastic wine glass as I talk.
“That’s not stupid. Music is always on my mind, too.” He takes a swig of his beer and fiddles with the label on the bottle. It’s grown soggy from the condensation, and he scrapes it off with his thumbnail. “Same song each night or different songs?”
“Same song.”
“What song? Is it by the Stones?” He nudges my shoulder and sends me another infectious crooked grin.
Maybe he’s not a total asshole.
“ I Ain’t Worried by OneRepublic.”
Chuckling, his eyes hold mine as he replies, “You see the irony in that, right?”
Turning his comment over in my head, I can’t help but wonder how the hell I’d never made that connection before. Awake, crippled with anxiety, and the title of the song I can’t get out of my head is I Ain’t Worried .
Ironic, indeed. Alanis would be proud. “Huh, I do now.” Like a steam engine gathering speed, a little giggle escapes, mushrooming into a full-blown belly laugh. My seatmate’s mouth quirks to the side, amused. “Thanks for that. I haven’t laughed in a long time.”
“Glad I could be of service, ma’am,” he replies, tipping his hat toward me.
“Cut the ma’am bullshit.”
His voice grows huskier. “Maybe I just wanted to see if you’ll call me sir again.”
My startled eyes meet his. It’s been so long since a man flirted with me, I don’t even know how to respond. Hell, I'm not even sure he is flirting with me.
He pauses, contemplative. “And I don’t know what else to call you.”
Holding out my hand, I introduce myself. “I’m Annabelle.”
Impulsively, I offer him my full name. No one ever calls me that, but when I take a moment to think about it, I know why I said it .
I want to be someone else tonight. I don’t want to be Anna. Anna has the weight of the world on her shoulders, loaded down by the burdens of betrayal, lost dreams, and single parenthood.
I want to be Annabelle. Annabelle is young and fun and carefree. Annabelle is looking for a good time and a memorable night filled with poor decisions.
After tonight, I’ll tuck this version of myself away. But first, I want freedom from my reality for a night.
As his warm hand grips my own, an electric current shoots through me. My imagination is probably running wild, given the circumstances.
But when his gaze collides with mine, his surprised expression confirms he felt it too.
“I’m Hayes, or you can just keep calling me asshole if you prefer. Nice to meet you, Annabelle.”
Releasing his hand from mine, he settles it around his Lone Star beer bottle again.
We sit in silence for a couple of minutes, slowly sipping our drinks.
It’s companionable. Peaceful, even. But the ringing of his cell phone interrupts our comfortable silence several times.
It lies face down on the bar in front of him, well within my line of sight, making it difficult to ignore.
“You gonna get that?” I ask after his cell clatters on the bar top for about the hundredth time.
“No, but I will turn it off.” He powers it down and stands up to slide his phone into the front pocket of his jeans.
Damn, that ass fills out a pair of jeans well.
“Come here often?” he asks.
“No, you?”
“First time. I was supposed to stay at a hotel downtown tonight for a little staycation, but my car broke down and this is as far as I got.” Shrugging my shoulders, I send Hayes a questioning look. “What about you?”
“Hiding out.”
“Hiding out? Okay, there’s a story here. Your turn. Explain your tough day.”
As the bartender delivers another round of drinks and an order of nachos and chicken wings, Hayes pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales. “I’d rather not.”
“C’mon, talk. Maybe it’ll help. I feel so much better after telling you about my poor sleeping habits. See? Look at me,” I tease, waving my hand down my body, “the picture of tranquility.”
His gaze tracks my moving hand, starting at my face and working his way down, like he’s undressing me with his eyes. He pauses at my chest just a moment too long. I feel the heat behind his stare. Desire builds within me, and my breath hitches.
Ignoring the swirling butterflies I feel, I say, “Don’t distract me. Why are you hiding out?”
Moving his eyes back to the television, he grimaces. “I broke up with my girlfriend today, and I needed to hide out somewhere she couldn’t find me.”
“Damn, you just broke up today?” Solemn, he nods. “How long were y’all together?”
“About a year, give or take,” he murmurs.
Squinting my eyes, I cock my head to one side. Given Hayes’ age, early to mid-thirties is my guess, and the duration of his relationship, I have an idea about what happened. “Let me guess, she was ready for you to put a ring on it, but you weren’t that serious about her?”
Pointing his beer bottle at me, he replies, “You got it in one.”
“Not ready for commitment or not ready for commitment to her ? ”
He lets out a sigh. “I care for her, but I’m not in love with her.
It didn’t feel right staying together when I knew she was more invested in the relationship than I was.
” I let his comment sit without responding, but after a minute, Hayes fills the silence.
“What about you? You look like the commitment type. Boyfriend? Husband?”
I hold up my left hand, showing off my empty ring finger. “Single.”
“No way,” he says, shaking his head. “Nope. I don’t believe it. Women like you are always taken.”
“Women like me ? What does that even mean?”
“Hot. Funny. Real. It’s not possible that some dude hasn’t locked you down yet. Maybe you’re not married, but I can tell you’re taken.”
With less reluctance than I usually feel when discussing this topic, I admit, “Nope. I’m as single as can be now .”
He grabs my hand and lifts it closer to his face. I know what captured his attention. The tan lines from my wedding rings have faded, but their traces remain, like a red wine stain on the tablecloth after the party’s over.
“Recent then?”
“Fairly recent, yeah,” I confirm. His hand stays on mine, and his touch sends tingles up my arm, soothing my frayed edges. “A few months ago.”
Sensing my discomfort, he doesn’t push me for details. He watches me, his blue-gray eyes filled with compassion.
But not pity.
I take a deep breath, push down my feelings, and shoot him one of my double-dimpled smiles. “Enough with the serious talk. Let’s get back to drinking.”
“That sounds like a plan I can get behind, Annabelle.”