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I should’ve brought earplugs.

“Wait, I do know you.” The woman’s green eyes scan my face, and her expression seems to spark to life as some light bulb goes off in her brain. “You’re Rhode… Rhode something. Rhode Tremblay! I don’t watch hockey, but you were in that underwear commercial, right? My MBA class did a case study on it because it generated millions in revenue. People went feral over your thigh tattoo. Don’t listen to what everyone says. I like the turtle. It’s artsy… and hot.”

“Everyone loves talking about that turtle on my thigh,” I mutter, sipping my beer that tastes like watered-down oats.

That would be the visual seared into the media. Rhode Tremblay: Nashville’s Naughtiest Bachelor. The poster boy of sex appeal carved out of muscle—their words, not mine.

Yeah, I look good naked thanks to the decades of soul-crushing workouts, but the main reason I agreed to do the campaign is because the company donated twenty percent of the profit to charity. But the journalist was more interested in discussing the abstract turtle on my thigh.

They all are.

The woman blinks like she’s confused or dreaming. “Rhode, right?”

“You asked me that already.”

“You’re so hot.”

I sip my beer, glancing around the bar for the nearest exit. “Thanks, you should see my personality.”

“No, but you’ve got those blue eyes and dark waves that always look so shiny.” She tramples right over what I thought was a solid comeback. “What conditioner do you use? I want it, and you even have that dimple right here.”

She pokes her finger above my cheek.

I lurch back, rubbing my jaw. I’m not spending another night making small talk with a stranger at a club, especially one who feels like she has a right to shove her tongue down my throat. I’m not a twenty-two-year-old guy who needs sex to function.

At least, not anymore. Those days are so far behind me that I’d need a telescope to see them.

I slap the bar counter. “Alright, I better head out. Got to get home to feed my cat. He’s a menace when he’s hungry.”

I love the little asshole. If it weren’t for him, I’d come home to an apartment emptier than my fridge.

“We could leave together if you want?” she slurs the innuendo. “Cats love me.”

“Mine would hate you, but he hates everyone, including me. Stay away from him in a thunderstorm. He’d scratch up your pretty dress.”

Her eyes spark. “You think I’m pretty?”

“I think all women are beautiful.”

The light in her eyes dims, and a twinge of guilt nags at me, but if I wanted a one-night stand, I’d have one. My DMs are full of offers.

One woman sent me a two-paragraph message saying she was thinking about me while she had sex with her husband.

Reverse cowgirl. Not that I asked.

I hate knowing there’s someone out there imagining me while she has sex. That’s not an image I need in my head, and the last thing I want is to break up a marriage.

I’m not my father.

“Oh no.” The woman's cheeks bulge like she’s about to gag.

My body goes rigid. “Oh. Shit.”

She begins a series of dry heaves that remind me of the time my cat puked up a hairball, but then she slaps a hand to her lips and bolts toward the bathroom. She drops her drink, splattering pink liquid all over my shirt.

Great, just the nightcap I need.

I’m tempted to go after her to make sure she’s okay, but she disappears into the hazy club.