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Eleven
Sage
“I know what you’re doing,”Harper says. “You’re hoping he’s here.” Harper leans on Brad at the bar, winking at me in what I find to be an annoying gesture.
“Who?” I ask, raising the margarita to my lips.
“You know who. Cash Creed who.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Okay, not to take Harper’s side, Sage, but it is rare you’d come here twice in one week, not with things being so busy at work,” Brad says now, setting his beer down.
I roll my eyes. “Of course you’ll take her side. You two lovebirds. See, see what love does to you? It ruins all original thought. Because of course I’d come here twice in a week with the new line launching. I need to get rid of some stress.”
“He’s right. Maybe two years ago you’d have been here three or four times in a week, but not now with the business being so serious. But hey, I think it’s great. I’m not judging. I think you need to live it up. Your business is a success. You need to take some time to celebrate. But I’m just saying, I know what you’re really doing here. You’re hoping for a replay.”
“That’s so not true,” I reply a little forcefully. “If it were, I’d have accepted his offer for dinner.”
“But this way, you can still act under the pretense that you’re not interested in him. If you see him here, it’ll be a coincidence.”
I sigh. I love having a best friend I can tell everything to—like how Cash Creed came into Midsummer Nights and I almost considered saying yes to dinner. But I also hate it because it means I can’t hide from myself. Ever. She knows me better than anyone, and she’s not willing to let me fool myself.
In truth, though, a big part of the reason I tossed on my favorite silver top and tight jean skirt was in the hopes of seeing Cash Creed. Dammit, I hate what that man’s done to me.
It’s not just the sex, either. Trust me, I’ve had plenty of good sex over the years. No, it’s something more. Something I can’t even explain because… well, what else is there? We had one hot night, and now the man plagues all my daydreams. I keep imagining all these scenarios of running into him, and it’s driving me crazy. And then yesterday, the daydream came true and there he was.
When I saw him in front of me, I wanted to take him up on his offer. I imagined what it would be like to get to know him, a man who appreciates both business and play, a man who doesn’t take love too seriously but takes pride in his work. He’s accomplished, he’s driven, and he’s a whole hell of a lot of sexy. He knows how to have a good time. He’s me in so many ways… but that also scares me.
Because one person hesitant about love is too much in a relationship. Two would be unbearable. So I did the typical Sage Everling tactic—I clammed up, closed myself off, and swore that sex was enough. And then I went home, spent an afternoon when I should’ve been working daydreaming about how things could’ve gone differently if I wasn’t such a paranoid, antilove kind of woman. What’s wrong with me? Don’t most women dream about a man like Cash Creed asking her out to dinner?
I know what’s wrong with me. It’s a mixture of my overly goal-oriented nature mixed with a family background that still haunts me. It’s a way to cover my vulnerabilities. My confidence in the bedroom masks what I lack emotionally.
In short, I’m a freaking mess.
But here I am, nonetheless, standing at the bar like a sad excuse for a single lady, keeping my eyes open for one man in particular so I can… what? Awkwardly accept his invitation a day late? Take him to bed for another one-night stand, which will actually be a second-night stand, and then complicate things even more? And who’s to say he even feels the same way? He asked me to dinner, not to marry him. The guy clearly is just after more sex, more fun. I don’t know why I’m fooling myself.
I think about turning to Harper and Brad and telling them I’m heading home, when Harper smacks my arm, practically knocking the drink out of my hands.
“It’s him,” she says animatedly, pointing to the door.
I turn to see him walking through. Tonight, he’s wearing a suit jacket, charcoal colored. It makes his eyes pop, his hair tousled in a perfectly sexy way. I feel my chest tighten as I set my drink down, trying to remember how to be coy when I really just want to run up to him like a sad sixteen-year-old, squealing and smiling way too much.
But the smiling sixteen-year-old within is quickly squelched. He walks straight through the Marooned Pirate like he’s on a mission… and the mission isn’t me. I watch him cross the floor to greet a brunette sitting in a corner booth. She stands and extends a hand, which he kisses like he’s some Disney prince. She smiles coyly, and he smiles back, squeezing in beside her.
“Oh my God,” I say, still staring. I don’t know why I’m surprised. I knew this was who he was. And hell, it’s who I am too. Why am I so pissed?
“I’m sorry, Sage,” Harper says, putting an arm around me. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine,” I say, reaching for my drink to toss it back. “It doesn’t matter.”
“I think it does,” she replies. “But look, it’s not too late. Why don’t you walk on over there, say hi?”
“You know I’m not like that.” And I’m not. I’m loose with my own dating rules and sex, but I’m not loose with breaking up relationships, no matter how fresh. Consensual sex between two singles is fine in my books, but any kind of sex when one is attached—just no. That’s too complicated.
“Come on, let’s get out of here,” I say.
“Don’t you want to look around? There are some nice guys on the dance floor,” she murmurs.
But I’m already gathering my bag and heading toward the door. I’ve lost my desire to play tonight, and suddenly this life I’m living feels… off. It feels wrong. It feels lousy. So I head out front to snag a cab, anxious to get home to some Netflix and time with the cats.
The life of the rich and famous… oh, how glorious it is.
How gloriously lonely.
