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The song “C’Mon Ride It (the Train)” by the Quad City DJs is playing and it’s impossible not to start singing. Swaying my hips. Moving to the rhythm.

It also doesn’t hurt that I’m three or four drinks in at this point and feeling pretty good.

And the view in front of me is pretty nice too.

She’s not tall, maybe about five seven, but she has a great ass, long legs, and a full head of dark hair with bright pink and purple streaks through it. She lifts her arms over her head, continuing to dance, a drink in one hand, a gaggle of gold bracelets adorning the other wrist.

I increase my grip on her hips, just a little, and she wiggles them, glancing over her shoulder with a grin.

Fuck but she’s pretty.

Exactly the kind of woman I could lose myself in for a night. Maybe even two.

No, one night is my limit. Two nights and they start asking questions. Hinting that we should exchange numbers. Wanting something that I’m no longer willing or able to give—to anyone.

Even a gorgeous brunette with a great ass and hair I want to wrap my fist in.

And maybe, I still can.

The song comes to an end and the brunette turns to me.

“That was fun!” she says. Her eyes—I can’t tell if they’re blue or green or gray—twinkle with delight. As if she’s having the time of her life. Maybe she is.

“It was,” I agree. “Can I buy you a drink?”

She gazes over at the bar, where the lines are longer than ever.

“You can try,” she says.

We both chuckle and start walking in that direction.

“Hey.” Simon hands me the drink he finally got.

“Thanks. This will be gone by the time we get to the bartender,” I tell the brunette.

“Sounds like a plan. Can I have a sip?”

“It’s bourbon,” I warn.

“It’s not Angel’s Envy, is it?” she asks. “That stuff tastes like battery acid.”

“No. Blanton’s.”

“My favorite.” She takes a sip, and it’s a real one, where she actually gets a decent amount in her mouth. This isn’t a woman pretending to like something to impress a guy—she drinks bourbon. And I’m genuinely impressed. I’ve never met a woman who drinks bourbon and honestly likes it.

“What’s your name?” I ask as we make our way to the bar, my hand at the small of her back.

“Maya. What about you?”

“Cash.”

“Nice to meet you.”

She’s wearing really high heels and a purple dress that fits her like a glove, moving through the crowd like she does this all the time. She probably does.

“You live in New York?” I ask her once we’ve stopped at the back of the line at the bar.

She nods. “Yup.”