AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Jenna almost snaps at me then, "Will you let go of me now?"
I notice how my hand still lingers on the smooth naked back of this gorgeous woman before me. A while ago, I had decided never to meet her again. Still, I am standing closer to her than I ever thought I would be, within close range of her unique scent, wondering what it could be.
I can't help smelling her when she looks at me shocked and immediately sniffs herself, "Do I smell bad? That can't be. I sprayed on my finest Chanel perfume before leaving the house. It must have been that sweaty guy, making me sweaty as well…."
Hearing her murmur, I can't believe my eyes when she does a complete three-sixty from how she'd been a moment ago. Amused, I let my hand brush up the smooth naked dip in her back before stepping back, "You smell good, Jen. Don't worry."
She stares back into my eyes as our eyes lock. I figure she's probably been flustered by my charming self when she starts, "When did I say you could call me by my nickname?"
Struck silly, I throw back, "When did I call you by a nickname? I don't even know your nickname. I hardly even know you."
For the first time, I mentally reprimanded myself for such a childish reply that even she couldn't believe it, looking at me as if gazing at a fool.
Thinking that looking stupid in her eyes is more humiliating than calling her by a nickname, I point to the bar nearby. "Alright. I called you by your nickname and then acted like an idiot. Can we forget that with a single drink? It's on me."
Again, looking at me as though I were a fool, she chuckles, "Ryan, it's an open bar."
My brain is back on track yet short-circuited, "Oh, look. I did it again."
Awkward and embarrassed, I don't know what to do next, so I look anywhere but at her when she extends her hand and smiles at me. "We can still drink together," she says.
Relieved, I grab her hand, smiling back, "I'll take that offer."
Chapter Five - Jenna
AsIlingeraroundthe bar, keeping my ears open for any significant events, Charles has left to capture some candid shots of the event. Armani's drunk, smelly, fat financial advisor latches onto my hand. Instinctively, I twist his hand and almost push him to the ground. Still, I must handle the situation carefully since this guy works for Armani. With a swift and precise move, I knock him out, ensuring a speedy resolution.
After the incident with the unruly guest and the back-and-forth banter with Ryan, we eventually make our way to the bar. As we approach, Ryan calls out to the bartender, "A gin and tonic for me, and for the lady...?" He looks expectantly at me.
I reply, "A White Russian, please."
The bartender takes our orders and retreats to prepare our drinks. Ryan looks at me curiously and asks, "So, why a White Russian?"
With a playful tone, I respond, "Just felt like it."
Ryan nods, and I can't help but tease him, "What about you? A big, bad man like you only enjoying a gin and tonic? Are you a lightweight?"
He smirks in response, "It's not that I don't want a stronger drink. I can't drink on the job. Also, I have to watch what I eat."
Intrigued, I inquired further, "What? Are you thinking of losing weight?"
Ryan smirks and responds, "What about you? You perfectly executed a maneuver even most strong men can't do and knocked out an almost three-hundred-pound man. Where did you get those moves?"
As memories of my past come rushing back, emotions well up inside me, and I consider opening up to Ryan. He listens attentively as I begin to share my story.
"Well, after my husband passed away, I had to work as a journalist to care for my son, Cale. At the time, I was unaware of the dangers associated with the field. You wouldn't believe how common it is for reporters to encounter angry protesters, criminals, and even victims. Since we were responsible for capturing footage, we always had to be on the front lines, recording and reporting everything. So, we often become the targets of their anger and frustration. But it's part of the job. We capture their enraged and humiliated faces on television, and in turn, they lash out at us."
Ryan falls silent as the bartender returns with our drinks. Lost in contemplation, I take a sip of my White Russian. Suddenly, Ryan blurts out, "Are you kidding me?"
Taken aback, I turn to him in confusion, "What...?"
Ryan's tone is frustrated: "How can you—a woman—work in such a dangerous profession?"
Offended by his statement, I scoff, "And what right do you have to judge women and their choices?"
Ryan seems to calm down slightly but continues with misguided thoughts, "I may not have the right to generalize about women, but you are someone I know currently working in a hazardous field. I can't help but ask..."
In a burst of anger, I grab my White Russian and splash the drink on Ryan, interrupting his speech. My vision blurs as tears well up in my eyes. "You have no right to say anything about how I live my life. I am proud of what I have achieved so far. It supports my child, and that's enough. Don't you dare show your face to me ever again!"
