Chapter 1
Nick
This isn’t going to work.
I’m sorry that I waited until you came out here to say this. When you suggested this trip, I really did want to see you.
But as time went by, I started to second-guess everything, and well, you already had the plane ticket and everything booked.
I know it was shitty of me to put this off. I’d planned to still hang out with you, tell you we should just be friends in person rather than over the phone like a dick.
Or maybe I was hoping once I met you, I’d change my mind again.
Shit, sorry, I’m rambling.
I’m sorry again. This is a me thing, it’s not really about you.
Sorry.
Four times. He apologized four times in the span of ten minutes when he couldn’t be bothered to text me at all for the last hour.
I slump forward, leaning my head against the steering wheel.
A squeaky beep startles me, and I straighten up again.
It takes me a second to realize that undignified sound is my car horn for the next week.
No blaring honk to express my rage and frustration.
Just a pathetic little bleat that might not even be heard over the other sounds of traffic.
I look back at my phone again. I could rip into him, tell him how he’s not only wasted my time, but my money.
Ask him for a better explanation than ‘second-guessing’ himself.
What the fuck is there to second-guess? Yes, we discussed sex at length, and I packed with that in mind, but this was still just a first meeting.
If he didn’t like something about me, he could have expressed that any time before I flew over a thousand miles to be with him.
If I start typing now, my anger will infect every word.
At least he didn’t fucking ghost me. Yes, I’m stuck alone in an unfamiliar city, but it’s better than waiting all night to hear from him.
Thinking the worst had happened—like a terrible car accident on his way to the airport. At least he spared me that.
Taking a deep breath, I toss my phone onto the passenger seat, needing some distance from it so I don’t do something I regret.
Even if our relationship isn’t salvageable—and I’m not taking someone back after they practically abandoned me like an unwanted puppy—I don’t want to be the asshole who flips out at someone after a rejection.
I put the car in reverse and back out, focusing on navigating the narrow aisles of the parking garage.
The too-tight turns and packed cars are just the right amount of annoying to need my full attention.
Once I’m out of the garage and onto the airport’s street, my thoughts are free to spiral again, and I can’t have that.
I pull off to the side. It’s already dark outside, the sun set a while ago. My stomach grumbles a complaint. The food on the airplane was fine but unsatisfying. I need to find somewhere to eat and a hotel to stay at.
And something to drink, while I’m at it.
I grab my phone again and scroll through my options.
There are hotels near the airport of course, but I want to put some distance between myself and my mistakes.
As I scroll, I finally find something downtown—twenty minutes away—that’ll suit all my needs.
The hotel is a little expensive, and while I don’t need to waste any more money on this failed trip, it’ll be nice to sleep on sheets that aren’t as scratchy as paper towels.
Plus, the hotel has a highly rated restaurant and bar.
As long as I can make it back to my room on my own, I can drink as much as I want without worrying about the car.
Plugging the directions in, I put the car back in drive and head straight for the hotel.
I end up skipping dinner. More room in my stomach for liquor that way. My luggage, including my computer, is upstairs, safely locked away in the hotel room. The only things I brought with me were my cell phone, the key card, and my wallet.
The bar is relatively quiet. Apparently, it’s not a hopping place on a Saturday night.
Maybe eight o’clock is too early for the regular patrons.
Or maybe the fact that the cheapest cocktail is twenty dollars keeps a lot of them away.
There were cheaper bars, all within walking distance, but the only walking I want to do is from the bar to the elevator, and then from the elevator to my room.
I start with a shot of tequila, more interested in getting drunk than enjoying the journey.
I plan on ordering a second as soon as I’m done with the first, but the single bartender is distracted with another patron.
“Sir, have you decided what you want?”
It’s a simple, innocuous question that definitely doesn’t deserve the distressed, “I don’t know” it receives.
I’m not the only one having a bad night.
I look over at the other patron, taking in his disheveled appearance.
Blond curls stick up in a dozen odd directions.
His tie is hanging loose around his neck, the buttons of his suit jacket all undone, and the open top button on his shirt exposes the elegant curve of his throat.
There are marks on his knees like he’s spent time on them recently.
His clothes make him look like he’s three-sheets to the wind already, but there’s something about his pinched expression that says he’s not nearly drunk enough yet. The furrows in his brow deepen as he reviews the menu, which is admittedly long and impressive.
Not drunk, just decision fatigue, I decide as I watch him. I’ve seen it in both my coworkers and my partners, where one too many questions sets them off on a spiral of indecision.
The bartender is unamused. He doesn’t look like the type willing to ask questions and make suggestions.
“What do you like?” The sound of my own voice startles me. I hadn’t realized I was going to ask the question until it was already spilling out of my mouth.
The man is also startled, his big blue eyes getting wider as he looks at me. He licks his lips, then eyes the seat next to me.
I shift to open up my posture into something more welcoming.
He accepts the silent invitation and scooches down to sit beside me. “I don’t actually like alcohol that much,” he confides in a whisper. He lowers his lashes shyly. They’re long and almost red in the low light. “But I …”
“Want to get ridiculously drunk?” I say, my lips quirking in amusement.
He sighs and nods. “Yeah, that.”
“Shots it is then.” I hold up two fingers to the bartender and say, “Two Dirty Girl Scouts, please.”
That earns a laugh from my companion. “That’s a drink?”
“Yup, minty and sweet and goes down easy.”
He rests his elbow on the table and his chin in his hand. He looks me up and down, eyes lingering on several places: my lips, my throat, my arms and chest. Not just observing but appreciating. “You don’t look like the kind of man who wants a girl scout.”
I arch an eyebrow. He’s not wrong, of course, I just hadn’t expected him to be so bold.
A slight flush colors his lightly freckled cheeks as he amends, “I mean, to order a girly drink. No, I mean … shit, you just look like you’d order three fingers of aged scotch or something.”
“Do I?” I ask with a snort.
The bartender sets our drinks in front of us.
I pick up both glasses and hand one to my new friend. I look into his eyes as I say, “I like sweet things.” Then I bring the shot glass to my lips, tip my head back, and swallow the whole thing in one gulp.
Maybe a one-night stand with a stranger is exactly what I need tonight to get over Nick’s rejection.
My companion drinks his shot more tentatively, like he doesn’t believe he’ll like it. But when he finally tastes it, his face lights up. “Oh, that is good. Do you have any other recommendations?”
“Lots of them,” I assure him. I flag the bartender down and order two Redheaded Sluts.
My companion giggles at the name.
How would he react if I order us a couple of Blow Jobs? “I’m Euan, by the way,” I say, holding my hand out to him.
“Euan,” he repeats, rolling his tongue around my name, tasting it as tentatively as he tasted the shot. He takes my hand and shakes it, lingering. “I’m Alex.”