Chapter One
Ava
“Cosmo please,” I ask the bartender.
“Sure thing, sweetie,” she replies and walks away.
I note how the jeans hug her curvy hips, amplifying a butt I’ll never have. Looking at my blouse, I feel overdressed. I leave no cleavage to be seen, unlike the bartender or the other women here getting drinks. My button-up advertises “office professional” rather than “working girl,” but I’m comfortable.
The double D’s under my shirt get enough attention as it is. I don’t need any more sleazeballs sniffing around. Paired with the blouse, I’m wearing skinny dress pants and ankle booties.
The bartender sets the glass on a napkin. “Are you opening a tab?”
I look around the place and flick my wrist to look at the time. “Umm… No, I’ll pay for this one now.”
“Eight dollars,” she states with a smile.
After sipping my drink, I drop a ten on the bar. I’m here to meet Henry, a man I finally relented to go on a date with from the building I work in. He’s good looking enough, but I just don’t think we’ll have anything in common. I’m shy and prefer nights in to coming to a busy bar, but this was a better choice than dancing at some club.
I don’t dance. It’s not because I don’t love music. I have no rhythm and couldn’t do it to save my life.
Movement catches my attention as a man slides onto the stool to my right. His profile draws me in, and I take a moment to study the features I do see: long eyelashes, square jaw, and a sprinkling of gray that I’m sure will become a beautiful salt and pepper.
Maybe that’s why Henry doesn’t do it for me. Older men are enticing—less drama and I enjoy the way life has aged them. This man is exquisite, and I question my chances with him. I know I’m a pretty woman, and as I’ve stated, men like my tits. But I’m not everyone’s cup of tea, and that’s okay by me.
Forcing myself to look away, I take another sip before checking the time once more. I’ve only been here five minutes, but Henry should have been here ten minutes ago. I refuse to sit around waiting for a man. He’d been so adamant he wanted to meet me for drinks, I thought I’d make him wait, if only for a little bit.
Leaning my forearms against the bar, I watch the bartender work. She’s quick on her feet and friendly. Looking around, I notice a few men are studying her rather intently. A beautiful woman who’s outgoing can have any man of her choosing, assuming she’s not a class-A bitch. Then again, there are men who are masochists.
“You should give her your number,” an amused low voice says.
I turn my head and meet his piercing-blue eyes. They’re crinkled around the edges, and deep lines form where his lips quirk up.
“Excuse me?” I ask, except I don’t sound like myself. My tone is seductive and more confident than usual.
Mr. Silver Fox lifts his bottle to his mouth, and I watch his throat work. Stubble decorates his lightly tanned skin, and my sex clenches in response to him. It’s been a hot minute since I’ve had sex, which must be the reason I’m responding so strongly.
My relationship with Andy broke up a year and a half ago, I realize sadly. Not because I miss Andy but because I expect cobwebs have formed in my vagina. I don’t have casual sex. I’m too timid and cautious to take such a risk.
“I’m sorry. I assumed with how you’ve been watching her, you were interested. My bad,” he mutters and raises his hand in defense.
I turn slightly in his direction and lean back. “You think I’m a lesbian?” Maybe I need a makeover if I’m putting off the wrong vibes.
He raises a hand. “I mean no harm. I’m sorry, I should have kept my mouth shut,” he tells me and takes a drink.
I openly stare at the stranger now that he’s opened the dialogue between us. Sure, most of it has been one-sided with him shoving his foot in his mouth, but now I can’t take my eyes off him. He’s wearing a polo, fitted to his upper body, advertising he takes care of himself. Faded blue jeans mold to his thighs and loafers on his feet.
Is he sculpted? Or is he toned? Maybe he’s just lean?
My gaze flicks back to his arms. If I’m to assume based off what I see, I’d guess he works out quite a bit. His left ring finger is devoid of a ring or tan lines, giving my body the signal to flood with estrogen.
Noting my perusal, he turns toward me, his knee brushing my leg. “Get her another and put it on my tab,” he calls to the bartender, his eyes set on mine. I open my mouth to argue, but he shakes his head and offers his hand. “It’s the least I can do. Jason.”
“Ava.” Why do I sound breathy? What on earth is wrong with me? My pulse is rising, and the bar feels warm all of a sudden.
“I’m new to town,” he says, and I zero in on his lips. They’re lush, kissable, and inviting. Will they be soft?
“Welcome?” I ask stupidly. “I’m sorry, I mean welcome to town.” I need to get my shit in order.
