Prologue
The bartender–Tim, I think, looks like he wants to throttle me. The longer I linger at Buddies’, the more obvious it becomes. My drinks vanish faster, my mood tanks harder. For my last drink of the night, I request a margarita. I’m pretty sure he gives me the equivalent pour to dishwater with lime. I plan on slipping out before I’m not able to find my way home. It’s just me, Tim, and Mr. Sanders drinking his fourth cup of coffee at the end of the bar. Or, it was. I glance sideways when the chair two seats down scrapes against the ground, and a man sits, smelling faintly of whiskey and mint. I must be staring longer than deemed polite, because he turns, and his gaze clashes with mine.
Blue eyes. Broad shoulders. Freshly shaven face, and long, loose curls that frame his face perfectly.
Shit. He is beautiful. And I recognize him.
“Wyatt?” I blurt the name, wishing I could shove my face in my glass and just drown in it.
“Whitney,” he replies in cool surprise. I notice he doesn’t need to tell the bartender what he wants before a glass is slid in front of him. I guess that’s the perk of your brother being the bar owner. Wyatt and I have always known each other because wegrew up around the same people. Except for the occasional hello or polite nod in passing, we don’t interact much. Blake Warner, my closest and oldest friend, is practically a Conway herself. It’d be impossible to know one and not the other. Blake and Wyatt’s brother, Wesley, were attached at the hip when they were kids. Their parents are best friends and practically raised the three of them together.
Wyatt is older than me, by about five years or so. He doesn't cast another glance in my direction. Rather, he goes right back to facing forward. I watch as his knuckles curl around the short glass–the dark, amber liquid sloshing as he lifts it. Wyatt takes a long pull of his whiskey, watching the TV above the bar with a rapt fascination. A lacrosse game flies across the screen, but something tells me he doesn't care much for the sport.
I also find that I don't like the lack of attention this man is giving me.
“I started this morning,” I blurt, tipping my drink towards him. “How ‘bout you?”
His gaze roams over me, slowly and painfully, and I can’t tell if he’s checking me out, or trying to figure out why the hell I’m talking to him. Maybe both. “You’re not going to stop talking, are you?”
Definitely trying to figure out why I’m talking to him. “What’s your damage?” I ask, taking a sip. It’s not rude, just blunt. I’ve tiptoed around enough bullshit this week, and I’m over it.
His drink pauses halfway to his mouth, and his nose flares in irritation. “Excuse me?”
“Oh, come on.” I roll my eyes. “It’s seven p.m. on a weekday. You’re awfully grumpy. You’re too pretty to be here alone so…” I glance around like I’m doing the math in my head. “What was it? Bad date? Did she tell you your personality is as dry as dirt?”
He shocks me when he smirks behind the rim of his glass, pivoting his body so that it’s fully turned towards mine. Hedoesn’t acknowledge the dig I’ve thrown at him. His only response is, “You think I’m pretty?”
My eyes trail the way he licks his lips, and I hate that his smirk only widens when he catches it. “Don’t let it go to your head,” I say, turning away from him. NowI’mthe one who doesn’t want a conversation. Today has been a disasterand adding a bar fight to the list isnothow I want to end it. But Wyatt cocks his head, amusement and something else bubbling in his eyes. “What’syourdamage then?”
“What?” I whip my head back, blinking. He just stares at me, as if expecting me to explain the shitstorm that is my life. Maybe it’s the liquid courage, or the desire to spill all my secrets into his blue eyes, but I relinquish. I glance at the ceiling and let out an exasperated sigh. “Mommy issues. Ex-boyfriend issues. Take your pick.”
“Therapy’s a thing,” Wyatt mutters under his breath. My gaze narrows on him. He really is kind of a dick. Either that, or his social skills suck. Feeling the need to prove a point, I say, “I walked in on him sleeping with his assistant. Three times. Probably should’ve left after the first.”
“Probably.” He agrees, voice less than impressed. “What made it take the third time?”
I scoff, letting my eyes skim over him. “You really wanna know?” He just nods, all quiet curiosity. “He made her dress up like me.”
“What?” Wyatt’s laugh bursts free—sharp and surprised. And from the way he quickly clears his throat, it’s clear he didn’t mean to let it slip. But it’s so low, so rich, and it curls around my insides like it belongs there. So at odds with how he greeted me. “You’re joking,” he adds, brows raised like he doesn’t quite believe it.
“Wig. Makeup,” I nod, like I’m still trying to convince myself it isn’t a fabricated piece of my mind. “I’m pretty sure she waswearing my red lingerie, too. He was even moaningWhitney.” A horrified shiver racks my body when I utter the last sentence. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to wear red lace again.”
“That’s a shame about the lingerie.”
“Why?”
“Because red looks good on you.” He shoots a pointed look at the red top I’m wearing. My face heats, in both embarrassment and confusion. So first, he doesn’t want to talk to me. Then, he’s asking me questions. And now? Now, he’s hitting on me. Talk about whiplash.
“You’re a flirt.”
“You’re a talker.”
With our eyes locked, we’ve entered into a silent staring contest. The longer I look at him, I realize just how much he and his brother resemble each other. I can’t help but wonder if he favors his mother’s looks more or his father’s. I think about asking, but it's Wyatt who breaks the silence first. “What did you do?”
I shake my head slowly, wiping away previous thoughts. I smile like the damn Cheshire Cat. “I threw a lamp at his head.”
“Seems like a reasonable reaction.” Wyatt says, tipping his head. “He also sounds like the kind of douchebag who has a suit for every day of the week.”
“You’d be correct.” I lift the corner of my mouth, letting the confirmation hang in the air.
