by MJ Fields
She looks at me pointedly, and suddenly I feel defensive.
“We had good—”
Rolling her eyes, she cuts me off. “How about the time you called me from the bathroom at the Plaza Hotel, crying, because his mother brought another woman to the fundraiser for him to meet. And instead of politely walking away, he spoke to her for the entire night just to pacify his mom? Or last Christmas, how he didn’t think his family would like the thoughtful gifts you made, so he had his secretary buy them all more appropriate gifts, like six-hundred-dollar monogrammed cashmere sweaters?”
I press my lips together, feeling outraged but also stupid. Stupid that I put him and his lifestyle on a proverbial pedestal for so long.
“Oh!” She pauses, smiling like she’s enjoying this. “How about the time you overheard him on the phone, telling his mother not to worry because he sent you to John Barrett salon to finally fix your ‘trailer park highlights’ and make you ‘more presentable’?”
I cringe, shrinking in the stool as the memory assaults me. After removing my blonde highlights and adding dark brown lowlights, Townes seemed much happier. I figured he was entitled to his opinion. And frankly, I wanted to make him happy. I wanted to make him feel as proud of me as I was with him. A few weeks later, we attended yet another fundraiser. This time it was a black-tie event at the Waldorf, where in front of a crowd of people, his mother smiled maliciously and loudly told me, “How nice you finally look!” Before turning to a group of her friends and gabbing, “You wouldn’t believe what her hair used to look like!”
Bitch.
I exhale, groaning. “Can we switch to, fuck that shit, it’s time to move on?” I don’t quite put the same amount of enthusiasm behind that statement as she had, but still…
“Hell, yes!” she exclaims, immediately turning to get the bartender's attention. Her breasts jiggle in her low-cut V-neck top as she waves an arm in the air excitedly, hoping for him to notice her so she can steer me toward whatever path she plans to take me on.
I have to laugh to myself, or rather at myself, as I remember all the times Jenny led me down a road I would never have traveled without her. The truth is, I was wary at times, downright terrified at others, but each path led to fun and adventure.
While her mind is on the bartender, my eyes hone in on my cell, and my mind goes back to the night he’s having. Sure, I hate what he did to the ‘us’ I had planned, but that doesn't keep me from wanting to get to the point where I actually hate him. And it would just be one more time.
Oh, fuck it, let me be honest with myself...
Hello, my name is Nikki, and I am a social media addict.
I pull the phone off the bar and click on my Instagram app for a quick look before Jenny snatches my phone away again. Scrolling through stories, I see they are all now at a nightclub. A bottle is brought to the table. Lauren, who always wanted in Townes’ pants, is on the table dancing. Black mini dress, Louboutin heels. Cartier gold bangles on her wrist. I watch the same story over and over again, my eyes scanning the screen, hoping to catch a glimpse of the man who stomped on my heart. I move between the accounts of his friends, trying to piece together their evening. My throat starts to close when I catch Townes leaning into a girl, a flirty smirk in place as he appears to be whispering in her ear. Is he? Could he?!
I’m in my own world, hanging out on the corner of hate street and anger-lane, to be more precise, when I hear a sexy, deep voice with an English accent. “What can I get you ladies to drink?”
I lift my head, and there he is, tall, dark, and gorgeous. The man I’ve been avoiding at the Sweet Spot, at the local grocers, and basically everywhere I’ve seen him, like the plague. Sexy scruff lines his jaw, and when he smiles, a dimple shows on his right cheek. Recognition sets in his face, and my stomach drops—in sync with my phone. It slips from my shaking hands and falls onto the floor. Thankfully, it gives me an excuse to disappear, hide the obvious blush overtaking my entire face—thank you genetics—and gather myself.
Sliding off my barstool and crouching on the sticky floor, I pick up my phone and check the screen. Thankfully, it’s not cracked. But my ego? Shattered. That accent. The rich kid’s daddy in the Ferragamo shoes and owner of the sleek black Harley Davidson, the man who has had me scurrying like a mouse to hide for weeks, is... the bartender? I look around, trying to find the quickest way out of here, one that will make me look the least like a complete idiot.
Jenny kicks me in the side as I argue with… myself, still crouched down—basically hiding—, and I know I have to stand up. And stand I do, rather abruptly. Popping up to try to save myself from further embarrassment, I bang my head on the underside of the bar—ouch!
“Oh my God, are you okay?” Jenny is equal parts concerned and laughing.
Moments later, the motorcycle-riding, adorable thief’s daddy, turned bartender is by my side. “Do you need some ice?”
“She’s fine, Raff.” Jenny smiles, looking at the bartender before me, and then back again. Of course, they must know each other. Everyone in Holiday Springs knows each other.
Concerned, he asks, “What is the capital of Wales?”
Jenny snorts. “That’s the question you ask to see if she’s concussed?”
My eyes close, mortification growing by the second.
Finally, Jenny takes the lead. “Who had the smallest dick in high school?”
I croak, “Jeff Bannon,” and rub the top of my head.
“She’s fine!” She laughs, and I do, too. I look back up at him and melt a little. He really is gorgeous.
Shaking his head, he chuckles. “You are something else.” He looks at me closely, something warm growing in his gaze.
I find myself leaning closer to him when suddenly he turns away, returning to his spot behind the bar.
“Let’s do this again.” Leaning forward, he rests his corded forearms on the wood. The wood...his wood. I flush, imagining it the way I’ve seen it in my dreams. All hard, perfect, thick, veiny, and long…
“What can I get you to drink? On the house. A little apology on Nathaniel’s behalf, ay?” He’s all business now.
I swallow hard, looking down at his heavy, masculine hands. My eyes land on a gleaming gold wedding band circling his ring finger. Oh my God. He’s married for God’s sake! Of course, he is. But still, there is no way to deny how visually perfect this man is. Move over David Beckham; there’s a new hot bad boy Brit for the world… okay, Holiday Springs… to gawk at. His smirk confirms my initial suspicions; he’s used to this kind of reaction, and he likes it. Too much. I wonder what his wife thinks about his flirtatious behavior.
My eyes narrow at the thought, which only seems to cause his dimple to deepen as he continues looking at me.
Jenny pipes up, “Did you say on the house? We’re doing tequila. Two shots, please.” Jenny glances back at me. “Oh, who are we kidding? We’ll take six. If we’re going for it, may as well do it up!”
He winks at me as though I’m the one who just spoke. His eyes, no longer hidden by his glasses or distance, has my core literally tightening at that mischievous gleam in his whiskey-colored eyes. I watch as he steps back and grabs a stainless-steel tumbler and scoops ice into it. I continue to watch as he tips the bottle, his eyes again meeting mine as the amber liquor pours over the ice. He grabs a Hawthorne strainer and covers the tumbler, shakes it a bit, and then pours our first shots into the glasses he’d placed in front of us without me even noticing.
Maybe I really am concussed. I roll my eyes at myself. Concussed my ass, I’m swooning like a high school girl. Oh, and hey, I didn’t die of the embarrassment or turn to stone like I was sure I would have for the past couple of weeks if I came face-to-face with him again. I mentally kick my own ass and remind myself this is ladies’ night, and I’m here with Jenny. He’s a married man. I need to rein myself in.
Dragging my attention away from him is a struggle. It’s as if it weighs eight million pounds, but I succeed. Looking down at t
he shot, I realize I don’t want to get smashed, but I’m also miserable and need an escape, one that Jose Cuervo, a friend that has known me, the real me, my entire life, and the hot British accent can surely supply.
What do I have to lose at this point anyway? Now that I know he’s married, at least some of my embarrassment ebbs.
Unfortunately, the attraction doesn’t.
I put my fingers around the ice-cold shot glass, and it brings me back to a reality I wish I weren’t living in. I need this escape, and I need to be here and present with Jenny.
As if she knows exactly what I’m thinking, Jenny grins as she raises her shot. “A toast to those who treat us well, and all the others can go to hell.”
We clink our first glasses before shooting them down. I cringe at the gasoline-like taste and notice the bartender pushing a small saucer with cut lime wedges on it toward us. I quickly grab one of the juicy bites and sink my teeth into it.
“Those are an extra five cents,” he whispers with a smirk, and I really hope I’m the only one that caught that. I don’t want to explain that situation to Jenny.
When he pours the next shot immediately, I realize that there will be no reprieve between shooters.
Again, Jenny raises the shot with a grin. “To those who get us and would never change us.”
I feel a frown begin to form as I clink shot glasses with Jenny and shoot down the tequila, biting my lime and watching as he pours the third shot.
Jenny takes my hand, squeezing. “You’ll be okay.”
I nod.
Jenny lifts her drink. “Out with the old, and in with the new. Cheers to your future and all the men you will do.”
I laugh out loud as we tap glasses and shoot them back.
We both set our glasses on the bar, and Jenny tells the hot Brit, “Four more.”
“Oh my God.” I laugh, shaking my head, no.
She nods. “Bobby’s picking us up. Annnnnd, we both have tomorrow off!”
Still laughing, I remind her, “You have kids!”
She shakes her head. “And I have a good man at home, who will feed them, get them to school, and let me sleep off the hangover I so deserve. By the time they get home, I’ll be good as new. Tonight, let’s have fun and forget.”
“To having fun and forgetting,” I repeat, nodding as I lift the fourth shot glass.
Rule Number Six
When in doubt… accounting
Raff
I must be out of my bloody mind. I nod to Sally, the evening’s lead bartender, as I force myself away from the redhead who’s had my dick twitching—even before any physical contact has been made—for the first time in many years. I walk toward my office to do what I’d come in this evening to do: the bloody financial reports.
Closing the heavy wooden door behind me while cursing myself, I walk to the old worn black, leather desk chair left here by the previous owner and sit down.
Scrubbing a hand over my face, I let out a long sigh and gaze at the framed picture that sits on my desk.
Leaning forward and grabbing the frame, I look into my wife’s eyes. “I know. We had a pact. But we made that agreement before we had Nathaniel. We agreed to it before becoming Mum and Dad.”
I can envision her bottom lip pop out in a teasing pout. I can hear her voice in my head, goading me for being too emotional.
“Never a sensitive bone in my body until you, so cast your blame where it belongs,” I tell her… well, I tell the fucking picture frame as I set it back on my desk. “On you.”
I look at Hope and our boy in the photo taken just a month before her accident. I feel that sad fucking smile tug at my lips, a smile that I never realized was sad until Nathaniel pointed it out.
Since I came to the States, the plan has always been to work while Nathaniel was at school and spend all my free time with my son. After a couple of months of that, he started going to sleepovers, birthday parties and to stay with his aunt Faith on occasion. With last year’s birthday wish, I realized I was still a man, and I still had needs. I have a few women on the side, just for fun, no strings. And this situation has worked well for Nathaniel and me. Never would I have imagined that the woman who gave Nathaniel a verbal lashing for stealing a piece of candy, a redhead who has hair like Hope, but a bit darker, more auburn, who looked at me with the same wonder-filled eyes as Hope did ‘once upon our time,’ but not her smile, would have this effect on me. And now all I can think about is how much I want to go back to the bar to see her, whatever the hell her name is… smile.
After stealing another piece of candy, but handing her two nickels and watching her blush spread up her neck, I celebrated the day Hope was born over cake, listening to this year’s wish for me. But the ordeal with Red had me agitated. Getting back to our home, Nathaniel asked me with warmth in his eyes if I was nice to her. I knew damn well he saw the resemblance to his mother in her as well. I ignored his question and asked if he felt like pizza and a beer. Pizza and a beer, I said, to my own kid! And just now, when she saw me behind the bar, that same blush twisted my gut. I wonder how her skin will prickle and flush when I go in search of the answer to a question I’ve been pondering for weeks, is she a natural redhead?
“Fuck,” I snap at myself. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. These are just thoughts, Raff!”
Throwing a childlike fit of my own, I curse myself for feeling more than my normal one-night stand attraction. I lean forward, my elbows on the desk, my face resting in my hands, and look at her, my Hope.
“Looks at me a lot like you did, and it pisses me right off.”
Turning the photo around, I focus on my task—nothing like financial reports to take the edge off.
What feels like moments later, I take a quick glance at the clock and notice it’s past seven p.m.
“Shit,” I say, pushing back in my desk chair and making my way out to the bar.
When I round the corner, I see Nathaniel and his aunt Faith sitting at the bar, teacups in front of them, next to… Red and her sidekick, Jenny, whom I have known since I moved into town. I want to run over there, turn over a table or two to get to Nathaniel and Faith, and ask them what they think they’re doing, talking to the woman I feel somehow magnetized to.
But I catch Nathaniel laughing. I slow down before stopping, taking a breath, and calming down. Red empties her bag in front of him, Winterfield’s Sweet Spot candy spilling all over the top of the bar.
He grins, and she scrunches her nose and shrugs. I see her mouth the word, sorry, and ruffling his hair. He smiles, nodding, and holds out his hand in an offer to shake hers.
Instead of the cordial handshake, a sign of an apology accepted, she pulls him into a warm hug.
His eyes bulge and look as if they may fall out of his head as I walk toward them, worried he might… I don’t have a fucking clue why it bothers me, but it does. As I near, his shocked expression turns into a grin, and he awkwardly puts one arm around her and pats her back.
Once I’m in front of them, the bar between us, I jump into their conversation. “Everything all right, Nathaniel?”
Nathaniel nods and then eyeballs the pile of Winterfield’s famous homemade taffy, in dozens of colors, spilled out before him and then looks back up at me, seeking permission to break the no sweets after six p.m. rule. A rule in place because he’ll be bouncing off the walls of our home until midnight if not followed.
“One,” I concede.
She looks up at me, then back at Nathaniel, and smiles. “But take the rest for later.”
He looks back up at me, and I nod.
“Thank you, Miss Nikki.”
She giggles. “Nikki is fine!”
Her name is Nikki. Nicole, maybe? No. She looks like a Nikki. I like it.
I pry my eyes off of her face, and my hand tingles with a need to touch her.
I watch as a red-faced Nikki slides from her stool, steadying herself before attempting to walk a straight line to the ladies’ room. At least she’s a sweet drunk. Nothing worse
than a woman with an acidic tongue. I glance at Jenny as she stands up, does the same steady, ready, and attempts to walk straight. I shouldn’t have assumed one was any better off than the other, yet I had.
Faith clears her throat, and my attention gets brought back to where it should be, to my son and my wife’s sister.
She raises her eyebrows, and I narrow my eyes in response, knowing damn well what she’s thinking. She knows damn well I don’t particularly care for her attempt to hook me up with nearly every woman wearing a skirt when we’re in the same proximity.
“Nate, why don’t you run back to your dad’s office and grab a bag for your loot,” she says. “I think it’s too much for your pockets to hold.”
He slides off his stool, grinning, and heads toward my office, saying, “Be back in just a minute,” over his shoulder.
“Don’t,” I warn her before she even has the chance to suggest I ask the woman on a date.
“She’s—
I cut her off, “She’s not my type.”
She laughs. “She’s exactly your type. She’s so much your type that it grates on your last nerve. She even looks—”
“As I’ve told you every time, you try to hook me up with any and every single, widowed, or divorced woman in this town, I’m not interested. I do just fine on my own.”
“Trust me. I don’t go looking for them. They come to me. Literally, they walk into my bookstore, under the false pretense that they are looking for a romance novel, and somehow the conversation always leads to my sexy, single British brother-in-law with the handsome little boy.”
“Do they purchase books?”
She nods.
“Then, you’re welcome. As far as repayment for driving business your way, I kindly ask that you fill those empty places on your shelves with the idea of trying to marry me off to someone from the lonely-hearts club because my heart isn’t lonely.”
“I know it’s not,” she smiles gently, “but imagine how full it could be if you found someone to share it with.”
“I’m aware of how love enhances a person’s life. Your sister taught me everything I know of love. I really wish you’d focus that lust for love on yourself. You deserve to find love, too.”