3. Bailey
Bailey
Who the hell gave me permission to sit at this bar and flirt with this gorgeous man?
Not me. Couldn’t have been me. Regular Bailey was stiff and questioned everything she said.
She did not have men who should be on the cover of GQ buying her drinks.
Between Allen, Eli, and the bartender, I started to wonder what they put in the water here to produce such outrageously attractive men.
He was tall, from what I could tell, with broad shoulders and biceps I could rest my freaking head on.
The top button of his dress shirt was open, and he must have come over straight from work.
Men paid thousands of dollars for the kind of hair this man naturally had: dark, curly, and luscious, and it felt unfair that God would bestow such gorgeous locks on a man.
He looked at me as if I were the only woman in the world, or at least the only one in this bar, and I had never experienced such intense focus in my twenty-four years of living.
What would it feel like to have that level of attention elsewhere? Perhaps in a bed with the lights turned low…dear Lord, I was a hoochie mama. A glass of wine in, and I was already imagining taking this man to bed. One more drink, and I’d have our first dance song picked out.
“So, Allen,” I said, “what is it you do exactly? How do you contribute to the great town of Bexley?”
“I’m a business owner, of sorts.” He tilted his head side to side. “It’s a family business, but a business, nonetheless. I’ve lived here my entire life, which means I know your pretty face is new to town.”
“Oh,” I teased, “so you think I’m pretty?”
“I think you’re goddamn stunning, sweetheart,” he grunted, leaning closer into my space.
My breath hitched. My pulse thundered loud enough that I was certain he could hear it over the music playing quietly in the background. I caught the scent of whiskey on his breath, and it was getting harder to remember why hooking up with a complete stranger was supposed to be a bad idea.
He rapped his knuckles against the bar top, signaling the bartender and presumably another round.
I glanced down, suddenly self-conscious. Was I out of my mind? In what world was a guy who looked like him interested in someone like me? Echoes of past insecurities flitted through my mind, reminding me that there was always someone better out there. Prettier. Smarter.
He grazed a finger across my hand, pulling my attention back to him. “Penny for your thoughts?”
I could lie. I should lie. But something compelled me to give him an honest answer, to give myself one, too.
“My parents are high achievers who pretend feelings don’t exist. They expect a lot. My mom is critical. My dad…my ex—” I cut myself off, remembering no potential hookup wanted to hear about a douchebag ex. Still, the truth lingered: I’d been burned before.
“Somewhere along the way, I lost control of my thoughts. My head got crowded with everyone else’s expectations instead of my own,” I said.
I took a long, deliberate sip of my wine, bracing for his polite exit.
But he leaned in, close enough to steal my next breath. “Well…if it helps, I’d love to hear more of Bailey’s thoughts.”
My cheeks warmed, and I ducked my head. I couldn’t remember the last time someone voluntarily wanted to hear what I thought without an ulterior motive or a critique primed and ready.
An hour and a half later, I was three glasses of wine deep and curled into a corner booth with Mr. McDreamy. Clearly, my brain had left the chat, and my hormones had hijacked the driver’s seat, leaving me handcuffed in the trunk.
“And then I said, ‘Harper, is the world spinning, or am I just drunk?’” I laughed. “And that’s how we became immediate friends. She’s actually from here.”
My legs were tucked beneath me, my knees grazing the sides of his slacks. His chuckle filled the space of the now-empty restaurant.
Allen paused before responding, eyes lingering on my lips for a beat too long. “I don’t know her well, but she sounds like an amazing friend. I’m glad she’s in your life.”
“Tell me something no one knows about you,” I blurted out. I was desperate to keep the conversation going and ached to know more about my mystery man from the bar.
“How about two truths and a lie?” he suggested. “I’d normally say ladies first, but I already have my answers in mind,” he teased.
I sipped my wine and gestured for him to start.
“I’m allergic to peanuts. I have a collection of over two hundred records. I love singing in the shower.”
I narrowed my eyes at him, attempting to weed out the lie.
“I’m calling bullshit on the record collection. You probably own 199 and were planning to win on a technicality,” I replied.
A laugh came out of him that even he was surprised by. He leaned down, whispering in my ear. “I don’t need to win on technicalities, Bailey.”
Was my heart racing, or a stroke starting?
“You couldn’t pay me to sing in the shower. I have a terrible voice, and with the heightened acoustics, it sounds like nails on a chalkboard,” he said.
I choked on my drink, and his hand flew to my back.
“You can’t really be that awful, can you? Have you ever sung in front of anyone? What if you secretly have the voice of an angel?”
His hand was still on my back, softly stroking it and rubbing the soft cotton between his fingertips.
“You’ll have to find out and tell me one day,” he said. “You’re not getting out of your turn. Hit me.”
I hummed. “My liquor of choice is tequila. I can sing the ABCs backward from memory. I can turn my tongue into the shape of a three-leaf clover.”
“Cheeky girl.”
He tugged on the end of my curls, almost mesmerized by them.
“I call BS on the clover trick,” he said.
“We should’ve put stakes on this because you are dead wrong, bud.”
He leaned in, our noses nearly touching. “Prove it.”
A grin I had no control over spread across my face. I pulled my phone out, using its screen as a mirror, and proudly presented my clover-shaped tongue.
“Ta da,” I sang.
Allen shook his head. “Next, you’ll say you can tie a knot with a cherry stem.”
“That is a skill I have yet to master, but you’ll definitely be the first person I show it off to.”
Was flirting always supposed to feel this easy? Effortless, even—like driving the back roads to your childhood home.
He looked as if he had something he wanted to get off his chest, but stopped himself before the words slipped free.
We’d spent all evening trading embarrassing stories and slowly inching our way closer to each other, a brush of the fingertips here and a graze of the knees there.
The air between us felt charged, like the split second before lightning cracked, making the tiny space between our bodies feel hotter than it should.
I could already sense how easily I could fall for this man.
His hand settled on my knee, heavy and warm through the fabric of my dress, and I was acutely aware of where his hands were and where they weren’t. I leaned in, letting my hair create a curtain, desperate to cut through the attraction crackling between us.
He reached up, preparing to move my hair aside, when his phone pinged from the corner of the table. The alert was a welcome distraction from the tension that had developed all night.
Get your head on straight, Bailey.
I came here for career growth and independence, not to fall for the first nice guy I met. His phone pinged again, lighting up with a name he flipped face down too quickly for me to read.
“Work?” I asked.
“Something like that,” he said, the easy charm slipping just a fraction.
I jerked my head back. “I’m sure it’s important. I’ve taken up your entire evening by now.”
“Yes, you have,” he replied. “And I’d let you do it again. This isn’t my norm, and I don’t just do this with women I meet. Connect like this.”
“You barely know me,” I replied, brushing off the compliment. “I’m sure you’re used to ‘sophisticated’ women. Women who have their lives together. How old are you, anyway?”
“It’s rude to ask a stranger his age,” he teased.
“That rule only applies to women with questionable Botox, and you know it.”
“I’m thirty-one, Bailey. Happy?” he said.
“Extremely. Back to my point. You’re in your thirties and seven years older than me. You’re successful and have your life figured out and could probably charm the pope with how blue your eyes are.”
“You think I’ve got nice eyes, pretty girl?” he asked, a lightness in his tone.
“Not the fucking point,” I grumbled under my breath. “You’re used to women who drink dirty martinis with their pinkies up and don’t spill wine on themselves.”
“You spilled wine once.”
“That you saw,” I countered.
“Bailey, I noticed you the second you sat at the bar because you weren’t trying to be anyone but yourself. Wine spills and all.”
I paused my rant as alarm bells rang in my head. My mother’s voice drifted to the forefront of my mind—crisp, polished, and impossible to please. He’s fooling around with you, Bailey. You’re young and inexperienced. What could you give him that twenty other women couldn’t?
I squeezed my eyes shut, attempting to drown out her voice. What was the mantra my therapist told me to recite? I am worthy. I am lovable. There is only one of me.
My thoughts started to whirl, and I failed to notice Allen shifting closer to me.
“You’re spiraling,” he said quietly, leaning closer. “And it’s killing me to sit here and watch.” His voice dropped. “Can I kiss you?”
I was suddenly unable to connect my brain to my mouth, and words escaped me as I slowly nodded.
He leaned in, his right hand caressing the side of my cheek the way he would something precious, and tilted my head back to meet his eyes.
Bright, cobalt irises locked onto mine, and panic flickered low in my stomach, making me worry that if he looked long enough, he’d see the parts I’d worked so hard to keep hidden.
I blinked, and his lips were suddenly pressed against mine. Firm and sure, as if he’d been planning how to do this all night.
The angel on my shoulder had clearly turned in for the night, and the devil was in full control as my body melted into his. Our kiss was unhurried, and it was heady to have that kind of attention turned on me.
He gently tugged my bottom lip between his teeth as he dragged his palms down my sides, fingers spreading over my ribs before settling on my waist.
His touch was deliberate. Appreciative. As if he was memorizing every dip and curve, and that realization knocked the air straight out of my lungs.
I shifted forward without thinking, closing the last bit of space between us.
If he noticed how tightly I was clinging to him, he didn’t comment—and somehow it made me feel braver.
Everywhere he touched left a small spark on my skin, and I enthusiastically sifted my hands through his hair.
Hair that, quite frankly, had no business being so soft.
He groaned when he reached my fairly generous hips, gently kneading the skin.
I’d all but climbed into his lap, my body deciding before my brain could panic about it.
“Tell me to stop, pretty girl. Don’t let me get carried away,” he murmured against my lips.
I slid my tongue along the seam of his mouth, begging for entrance, and the taste of him was more intoxicating than any sip of alcohol. He tucked his chin down, peppering soft kisses down my neck when the sound of glass crashing jolted us apart.
The bartender rushed around, presumably looking for a broom. “Shit, sorry, y’all. I’ll just make myself scarce?”
Allen rolled his eyes before he touched his forehead against mine. The pads of his thumbs stroked back and forth on my cheeks. “Would I be reading the signs wrong if I invited you back to my place?”
My blush came back full force. “You wouldn’t be wrong at all,” I whispered. “But I probably shouldn’t.”
I saw the flash of disappointment, then subsequent acceptance, on his face.
“What about your number? I’m desperate for breadcrumbs here,” he joked.
I could sense the slight insecurity tinging his tone, and I could not leave this bar with him thinking he wouldn’t be the main character of my dreams for many nights to come. I fished out my phone and placed it in his palm.
“I’d pick a unique contact name if I were you. I wouldn’t want to get you mixed up with my other bar hookups.”
He grinned, then sent himself a text and handed me back my phone. He gave me one last kiss, lips lingering against mine.
“Promise me you’re not going to disappear.”
I nuzzled into his hand, reflecting on the best three hours of my life, and simply said, “I don’t make promises I can’t keep.”