“Um, yeah. Definitely.” I gulp down the last of my drink and slide the glass toward her. “Don’t be shy with the whiskey,” I tell her. The girl has been mixing these up so weak, I’ve been downing them like Kool-Aid. I'm half-tempted to climb over the counter and show her just how to mix up my Manhattan. “I need the alcohol to hit me. So I can do something a little…out-of-character tonight,” I explain. Feeling self-conscious, I tuck a lock of red hair behind my ear.
I’m in desperate need of a buzz because I’m about to go home with a stranger and I’m not sure I could pull this off sober.
She glances at my hunky admirer across the distance. A knowing grin curls her mouth. Her tone goes low and conspiratorial like she’s in on my dirty, little secret. “I’ve got your back, hun.” She winks, no judgment in her expression. Then she grabs my glass and struts off toward the whiskey shelf.
My confidence is a little wobbly right now so I appreciate the bartender's dose of female support. I left my girlfriends at home. I didn't tell them I was going out by myself because I can just imagine what Iris, Lexi and Jessa would say.
Penny, you're an independent woman. You are not defined by your relationship status.
Penny, just be your bomb-ass self and enjoy being single until your Prince Charming shows up.
Penny, you're perfect just the way you are. You don't need a man to complete you.
Yeah, yeah, yeah. All that may be true. But here's the thing—I’m in a rut. A deep, well-grooved rut.
For the longest time, my life has been stalled in every flipping aspect. I'm paying student loans for a degree I've never used. I'm tending bar at a drinking hole I outgrew five years ago. And the worst part? I'm now 33 and every night when I lie alone between my cold sheets, craving the feel of one man's big, calloused, perfect hands on my body, I can almost hear my biological clock ticking down.
I'm feelin' the pressure, y'all.
People make all kinds of assumptions about me. I suppose that’s my fault. I’ve built up this sexy, confident redhead bombshell image for so long, and I just let everyone think what they want. I’m the one other girls hate. The one who gets dirty looks because every woman thinks I’m after her man. The one that everyone assumes is hopping onto all the dicks in town just because I work at a bar and I like to get all dolled up.
Ha—if they only knew. I won’t even admit how long it’s been since I’ve had sex. Though, no one would ever guess it.
And as for dates? I haven’t been on a date in forever. Sure, I get asked for my number while slinging drinks or when I'm in line at the local coffee shop. Hell, I get groped by some creepy oldtimer every time I visit the nursing home with Walker.
But a real date? One with dinner, drinks, and a hot, hungry male body for dessert? Those don’t seem to happen for me.
Attracting a cute guy has never been my problem. But, unfortunately, there’s only one man my body yearns for, and he’s never looked at me ‘that way'. It doesn’t matter how much makeup I wear. Or how much time I spend on my hair or outfit. I’ve effectively been friend-zoned by the man of my dreams since the first grade.
I wish I didn’t love a guy who’s unattainable.
You can't go on like this, girl. It’s time to move on with your life...
I shut down the self-pity and snap back into vixen mode because Momoa is on the move. With the grace of a prowling wildcat, he's headed in my direction.
This is it, I shriek internally. This is it. I might be doing a pretty good job of keeping myself together on the outside—but shit—I'm nervous.
I sit a little straighter. Lick my lips. Adjust my cleavage inside my itty-bitty faux-leather mini dress.
“Get it, girl.” The barmaid grins slyly and sets my drink in front of me. She ambles off just as the sexy hunk of man lowers onto the stool next to me.
On instinct, my fingers clench on my glass. I take a fortifying gulp of my Manhattan.
The vapors from the cheap whiskey fry off my nose hairs. I throw a glare at the ditzy bartender...I know I said to be generous with the liquor but—oh my god—what the hell did she put in here? Rubbing alcohol and gasoline? I can usually drink most guys under the table. But this is extreme.
Vixen mode, Penny. Vixen mode.
I forcefully suppress my cough. Because it’s downright impossible to look sexy when you're coughing up a lung.
The man's dark, mysterious eyes drink in my every move. He sticks out a big hand. "Connor." He’s all teeth and sexy predator when he grins.
I arch a brow and pause just long enough to make him sweat. "Penny," I say when I finally take his hand.
He brings his stool closer. His wolfish grin expands. “I just had to come over here and introduce myself 'cause I've got the distinct impression that you've been objectifying me all night."
Wow, cocky much?
Arrogance is usually a major turn-off for me. But I remind myself that I need a human touch. A male touch. I've been taking things into my own hands for far too long. I swear—when I reached into my drawer for my vibrator last night, the thing groaned with annoyance and rolled its eyes at me. You again...
I really don’t want to do the self-loving thing tonight. Plus, I’m all out of AA batteries, and since it’s past ten o’clock in Crescent Harbor, all stores of the battery-buying variety are closed for the night. And if I show up on any of my friends’ doorsteps asking for batteries in this dress, at this time of night, they’ll know exactly what I’m up to.
My eyes settle on Connor's face. I smile. He’s not Walker but for tonight, he'll more than do. You
