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Chapter One
Al was a sucker for a redhead. Always had been, always would be, didn’t matter when or where.
Case in point: she was through airport security, halfway down the concourse on her way to the boarding gate, when a flash of auburn drew her gaze to the striking white woman at the bar. Wild curls of dark red cascaded down her back, designer jeans hugged her ass and thighs, and an emerald green sweater hung precariously askew on her shoulders.
Al could continue the rest of the way to her gate and video chat with her grandkids, check in with the family winery, or answer any of the hundred or so emails that awaited her return to work tomorrow. Or, if Red at the bar was game, Al could flirt her way into a bathroom stall and in between those denim-clad thighs before her flight.
The woman shifted on her chair, and her sweater slipped fully off one shoulder. Freckles. Fucking kryptonite. Al’s fate was sealed.
Al hitched her purse firmly onto her shoulder and skirted through the gap in the bar’s faux patio enclosure. Weaving through the pub tables, she sidled up to Red. “This seat taken?”
The other woman glanced up from her laptop, and if the freckles hadn’t been a sharp enough hook, the warm brown eyes would’ve done the trick. Surprised, she glanced around, her gaze lingering a second longer on the empty table beside them before landing back on Al. “Uh, sure...”
Sounded more like a question, which Al answered by climbing onto the other chair. Pub tables were tricky at five foot two, trickier in a maxi skirt and travel flats, but with multiple restaurants in the family, Al had learned to manage. She hooked her purse on the chair back, then righted herself in time to catch Red’s gaze roaming over her with interest. A positive sign.
“What’s good here?” Al asked.
“It’s an airport bar.” She closed her laptop and leaned back in her chair. “Nothing’s good here.”
Al smirked and eyed the empty cocktail glass on the table. “Not even the drinks?”
She wobbled her hand. “Shit for vermouth, but at least when I order a Manhattan, I don’t have to tell the bartender it’s supposed to be rye.” The lady knew her cocktails; Al liked that. “Your first time through here?”
“SFO?” Al shook her head. “No, but it is my first time in this bar. You?”
“Good Lord, no.” She chuckled, and the husky tone of it sent a bolt of lust straight to Al’s clit. “Pretty sure the staff knows me by name.”
“Frequent flyer?”
She nodded. “Especially this time of year. I’m from Half Moon Bay, so back and forth for the holidays. You?”
“New York,” Al answered, “if the accent didn’t give it away.”
One corner of Red’s mouth curled up, her half smile reserved and devastatingly attractive. “It did, but I wasn’t going to say.”
“Ah, manners, and I’m forgetting mine.” She extended a hand across the table. “I’m Al.”
“CC.” Returning the handshake, she didn’t jerk away when Al swiped a thumb across the underside of her wrist. Another positive sign. Her sly smirk was an even better one. “Are you always this forward?”
“Did you miss the New York part?” Which included the unfailing ability to flag down cabs and servers. She drew back and hailed one of the latter. She passed on the seasonal eggnog martini and ordered another Manhattan for CC and one for herself. “Like you said,” Al replied to her raised brow. “Forward.”
“Fair,” CC said with another of those sexy laughs. “Though my sister’s the same way, and she’s one hundred percent California girl.”
“Older or younger?”
Brown eyes rolled, and a heavy sigh followed. “Younger.”
“Oh,” Al drawled, leaning forward on her forearms. CC’s eyes strayed to her cleavage and lingered long enough for Al to consider it the final sign she needed to continue Mission Flirt-Her-Way-Between-Those-Thighs. “There’s a story there.”
CC’s half smile grew, full of affection with a dash of exasperation. “She’s my best friend and housemate. I love her dearly, but she’s a lot. If it weren’t for the pastries, I might have disowned her by now.”
Al waited for the server to drop off their drinks before asking, “Pastries?”
“She’s a pastry chef. The one thing that’s ever stuck for her.”
“You hit the jackpot.” She lifted her glass, and CC clinked the rim against hers.
“You have no idea.” She sipped at her drink, then lowered the glass, a French-manicured nail circling the rim as her mind drifted, along with her words. “I’m not sure I would have survived 1L without her.” Then, as if catching herself, she redirected her attention to Al. “I’m sorry, I meant—”
