I grab my phone again and scroll through my options. There are hotels near the airport of course, but I want to put some distance between myself and my mistakes. As I scroll, I finally find something downtown—twenty minutes away—that’ll suit all my needs. The hotel is a little expensive, and while I don’t need to waste any more money on this failed trip, it’ll be nice to sleep on sheets that aren’t as scratchy as paper towels. Plus, the hotel has a highly rated restaurantandbar. As long as I can make it back to my room on my own, I can drink as much as I want without worrying about the car.
Plugging the directions in, I put the car back in drive and head straight for the hotel.
I end up skipping dinner. More room in my stomach for liquor that way. My luggage, including my computer, is upstairs, safely locked away in the hotel room. The only things I brought with me were my cell phone, the key card, and my wallet.
The bar is relatively quiet. Apparently, it’s not a hopping place on a Saturday night. Maybe eight o’clock is too early for the regular patrons. Or maybe the fact that the cheapest cocktail is twenty dollars keeps a lot of them away. There were cheaper bars, all within walking distance, but the only walking I want to do is from the bar to the elevator, and then from the elevator to my room.
I start with a shot of tequila, more interested in getting drunk than enjoying the journey.
I plan on ordering a second as soon as I’m done with the first, but the single bartender is distracted with another patron.
“Sir, have you decided what you want?”
It’s a simple, innocuous question that definitely doesn’t deserve the distressed, “I don’t know” it receives.
I’m not the only one having a bad night.
I look over at the other patron, taking in his disheveled appearance. Blond curls stick up in a dozen odd directions. His tie is hanging loose around his neck, the buttons of his suit jacket all undone, and the open top button on his shirt exposes the elegant curve of his throat. There are marks on his knees like he’s spent time on them recently.
His clothes make him look like he’s three-sheets to the wind already, but there’s something about his pinched expression that says he’s not nearly drunk enough yet. The furrows in his brow deepen as he reviews the menu, which is admittedly long and impressive.
Not drunk, just decision fatigue, I decide as I watch him. I’ve seen it in both my coworkers and my partners, where one too many questions sets them off on a spiral of indecision.
The bartender is unamused. He doesn’t look like the type willing to ask questions and make suggestions.
“What do you like?” The sound of my own voice startles me. I hadn’t realized I was going to ask the question until it was already spilling out of my mouth.
The man is also startled, his big blue eyes getting wider as he looks at me. He licks his lips, then eyes the seat next to me.
I shift to open up my posture into something more welcoming.
He accepts the silent invitation and scooches down to sit beside me. “I don’t actually like alcohol that much,” he confides in a whisper. He lowers his lashes shyly. They’re long and almost red in the low light. “But I …”
“Want to get ridiculously drunk?” I say, my lips quirking in amusement.
He sighs and nods. “Yeah, that.”
“Shots it is then.” I hold up two fingers to the bartender and say, “Two Dirty Girl Scouts, please.”
That earns a laugh from my companion. “That’s a drink?”
“Yup, minty and sweet and goes down easy.”
He rests his elbow on the table and his chin in his hand. He looks me up and down, eyes lingering on several places: my lips, my throat, my arms and chest. Not just observing butappreciating. “You don’t look like the kind of man who wants a girl scout.”
I arch an eyebrow. He’s not wrong, of course, I just hadn’t expected him to be so bold.
A slight flush colors his lightly freckled cheeks as he amends, “I mean, to order a girly drink. No, I mean … shit, you just look like you’d order three fingers of aged scotch or something.”
“Do I?” I ask with a snort.
The bartender sets our drinks in front of us.
I pick up both glasses and hand one to my new friend. I look into his eyes as I say, “I like sweet things.” Then I bring the shot glass to my lips, tip my head back, and swallow the whole thing in one gulp.
Maybe a one-night stand with a stranger is exactly what I need tonight to get over Nick’s rejection.
My companion drinks his shot more tentatively, like he doesn’t believe he’ll like it. But when he finally tastes it, his face lights up. “Oh, that isgood. Do you have any other recommendations?”
