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When it finally sank in, frequenting bars became normal.
Bar nights typically ended with an anonymous woman on my arm. I never asked for their name and never offered my own. If they asked, I gave them a fake. If they said theirs, I let it go in one ear and out the other. We always went to her place—no one set foot in my home—and had our way with each other. Less than an hour later, I hopped in my car and went on my merry way.
This isn’t the life I wanted, but it’s the life I now choose.
Once upon a time, I dreamed of settling down with one woman. Of having a nice home and children. Of building each other up and creating a wonderful future. I’d seen it so clearly. Love and laughter and promises of forever. Years ago, those dreams revolved around Gabby. For six years, I’d handed over every piece of myself to her and thought she did the same.
Then, she punched a hole in my chest, ripped out my heart and shredded it into confetti.
With time, the knife in my heart slowly eased out. When it finally fell away, I swore off serious relationships. I renounced romantic connections. Not because I no longer had a heart. But because I needed to protect my heart, my soul, my sanity.
No one would get the upper hand on me again.
One-night stands may be how I live myromanticlife now, but I am no manwhore.
Four years ago, Gabby broke me. Three years ago, I hooked up with my first one-nighter. The next day, I felt dirty and ashamed. In the past, sex had always been an extension of love. Telling myself sex and love no longer coexisted in my world had been more challenging than I anticipated.
Since that first one-nighter, I’d only sought out sex when my hand no longer satiated my needs. Which isn’t often, but more than I care to admit.
Thank you, busy job.
Like the others, Lessa was someone I never thought I would see again. Especially since we didn’t live in the same city. We didn’t exist in the same social circles. She knew none of my friends and I knew none of hers.
But fate or whatever cosmic force pulls people together has other plans. I’d be foolish to believe otherwise.
“I’m so screwed,” I mumble and roll over, smothering myself in the pillow.
With a groan, I fist the pillow. Allowing myself a few minutes to wallow in this realization. To let it sink in fully.
Nothing good will come from wanting more with Lessa.
Do not get attached.
Sighing, I roll out of bed and go about getting ready for the day. No amount of procrastination will fix this.
I squirt toothpaste on my toothbrush and scrub my teeth. As the minty foam cleans my teeth, a plan for the day comes together.
Top priority… don’t bump into Lessa. At all costs, avoid the coffee shop.
Slipping on jeans and a T-shirt, I swipe the town guide off the desk and leave the room.
Downstairs, I stroll into the dining room of the bed-and-breakfast. A young man steps up to the table and shares today’s breakfast options.
“The two-pancake breakfast, please. Scrambled egg whites—no milk—turkey bacon, and coffee. Do you have oat milk?”
“Yes, sir.”
“On the side, please.”
As the server scurries off, I flip open the town guide and scan the places I marked to visit. Aside from the shops on Main Street, a few hidden gems garner my attention. The Lake Lavender History Museum, Bradford Farms, Rescues Gone Wild, and the town’s namesake lake, of course.
The server brings a mug, coffee carafe, and creamer, filling the mug before stepping away.
Before breakfast arrives, I map out my plan of attack between now and Wednesday.
Most of my time here will be spent visiting the small businesses, but I want to drive through the neighborhoods. Scour the natural landscape. See places off the main thoroughfare. The few days I’d spent here six months ago, I learned the residents are a devoted community.
Growing up and living in the city, small towns always fascinated me. They also make me twitchy as hell.
