“Work,” I say, which isn't technically a lie. “You?”
“This is my hometown. I'm in PR.” She swirls her drink, ice clinking against glass. “Crisis management, specifically. I clean up other people's messes for a living.”
“Sounds stressful.” What’s stressful is sitting beside her in a bar, surrounded by people, instead of being in a private room with this gorgeous, sexy woman, undressing her, bit by bit.
Somewhere, I can find out if her skin is as soft as it looks.
“You have no idea.” She takes another sip, and I notice the way her shoulders relax slightly. “But I'm good at it.”
When I say I'm good at hockey in interviews, it comes out cocky, like I'm bragging. But when Avery says it, it's different. She's just stating a fact. Like she knows exactly what she's worth and doesn't need anyone else's validation to prove it.
So fucking attractive.
“What kind of messes?” I ask.
“The kind that make headlines.” She meets my eyes. “Politicians caught with their pants down, CEOs saying stupid things on Twitter, celebrities who think the rules don't apply to them.”
I stifle a laugh. That sounds exactly like me. “Celebrities, huh? They must be a pain in the ass.”
“The worst.” She leans forward, and I glimpse the curve of her full breasts against the black fabric.
My mouth goes dry, and suddenly the whiskey is only stoking the fire burning inside me.
“They live in bubbles where everyone tells them how amazing they are. Makes them think they can do whatever they want without consequences.”
I should be offended, but instead I'm fascinated. “Let me guess, recent client?”
“Too recent.”
The drinks keep flowing, and the conversation is easy.
Every word out of her mouth makes me want her more. The way she tilts her head when she's thinking, and how her tongue darts out to catch a drop of her martini from her bottom lip.
The bar gets more crowded, forcing us to lean closer to hear each other. Our knees stay pressed together, and somewhere between her third drink and my fourth, her hand finds its way to my forearm when she laughs.
The touch burns through my shirt, and I realize I haven't thought about my phone, the missed calls, or anything outside this conversation in over an hour.
Avery’s features grow solemn. “Ever had to choose between what you want and the smart thing to do?”
That’s a deep question. I don’t do deep with women, or with anyone really, except Jake, and even that is rare. I prefer to live life, not analyze it.
Still, I find myself thinking about my mother’s missed calls, about Jake telling me I'm wasting my potential, about the constant pressure to be the guy everyone thinks I am.
“Every day,” I admit.
“That's the thing about expectations,” she says quietly. “They're not really about you. They're about what other people need you to be.”
If I’m going to go in, I might as well go all in. I’ll never see Avery again, and she doesn’t know who I am. “SometimesI wonder what would happen if I just stopped. Stopped being what everyone expects.”
She leans in, intrigued. “What would you be instead?”
I don't have an answer for that. I've been Nova for so long, I'm not sure there's anything underneath. “I don't know,” I say honestly.
She reaches across the table, her fingers brushing mine. “For what it's worth, I think the real you is probably better than whatever act you're putting on.”
A laugh rips out of me. Now that is bullshit. She doesn’t know anything about me. “How do you know I'm putting on an act?”
“Because everyone is. Especially the ones who are good at it.”
