Hopefully, I’ll talk to you soon.
Nolan
Well, if that wasn’t the sweetest, most endearing thing I’ve read in a while. A man concerned about my safety instead of finding out what color my underwear is? He’s some kind of special, which leads my brain into a whole other train of thought. If he’s so wonderful, why is he still single? Why did he get divorced? He must have a small package.
I wonder if there’s a waiting period for me to send something back to him. I hate not knowing the rules or etiquette. This obviously isn’t traditional dating, so what’s the protocol? Fuck it. I’ll just email him back now and won’t check again until after work.
Nolan,
I’d enjoy meeting you and I think I’ll take you up on the offer to bring a friend. You’re right, it would make me feel safer. I’ll just need the address to the bar. I’m not usually available during the work day, but if you could send it to me via text, I’d appreciate it.
517-222-2222
See you this weekend.
Lo
And I’ve gone and done it … and don’t even feel bad about it. This is what I was talking about yesterday. I date, and when I do, I put myself out there. I leave nothing to the imagination. I don’t play games. I don’t have time. If something isn’t going to work, it’s best we get it out of the way ahead of time rather than spend a year with someone only to find out they hate that you’re ambitious. I might have personal experience with that. Maybe.
On my way out the door for work, I tap out a text to Cleo asking her to meet me at whatever bar I’m supposed to meet Mr. Dimples at this weekend. She agrees and to let her know when he texts the location. I wouldn’t mind learning the lay of the land. You never know when you’ll need an emergency exit. She replies immediately, indicating she’d be happy and can’t wait to hear about my weekend plans. I can already read her mind. She’s going to start talking double dating as soon as I tell her. I can feel it in my bones.
*****
Work’s one of the few places where I feel completely in control of everything. I’m a professional, damn good at what I do and everyone knows it. There’ve been people trying to steal my job since they realized I’m a wizard when anything to do with marketing is involved, but they’ve all failed miserably. What can I say? I’m a girl who knows her strengths and how to use them to her advantage.
“Loren, may I see you for a moment?” my boss pages through the intercom on the telephone.
“I’ll be right in, Mr. Fletcher,” I respond. Standing from my desk, I smooth out my light gray pencil skirt and make sure my red button-up blouse is tucked properly. I walk the few offices down to where Mr. Fletcher hides himself during the work week—the corner office with the most beautiful view of downtown and the river that will one day be mine.
Knocking softly on the jamb, I step through the door and wait until Mr. Fletcher sinks the putt he’s aiming. After his ball drops, his attention focuses on me and a smile appears across his lips. “Loren, thanks for coming down so quickly. Have a seat.”
Following his lead, I take one of the plush chairs in front of his desk while he adjusts himself behind the mahogany. “You know how Phil is taking the lead on that soft drink campaign? Well, that kind of puts me in a bind. Destined Software has just accepted our bid and I need someone to take charge. Would you be interested? The entire campaign would be yours.”
I can barely contain myself. Every muscle in my body twitches with the need to jump up and down like an excited teenage girl going to her first boy band concert. It takes everything in me to not leap across the desk and kiss his poorly aging face.
“Mr. Fletcher, I’d be honored. Do you already have a team assembled or would I be able to choose my own staff?” Please say pick my own, please say pick my own.
“My only requirement is that Zach works as your number two. Other than that, you’re free to choose anyone who’s not already assigned to a project. Please pick a few interns, as well.”
The mention of Zach’s name makes my lip curl. That was the second and last time I’d ever dated someone I worked with; it won’t ever happen again. He was a decent enough guy, but one night after he’d taken me to dinner, we agreed on coming back to my place to watch a movie. As I was in the kitchen getting us a drink and something to snack on, I walked out to the living room to find him completely naked and sprawled across my Ethan Allen sofa. All I could do was laugh. He turned beet red, got dressed, chuckled a few times, apologized and left. We haven’t spoken since. Well, until now that is, seeing as Mr. Fletcher needs him to be my right hand man.
“I can work with that, Mr. Fletcher. Thank you for this amazing opportunity. I won’t let you down.” I stand, shake his wrinkly hand and make my way to the door when his words stop me in my tracks.
“I know you won’t, Loren. You never have, you never will. I don’t have kids, darling. I’m going to have to hand this business down to someone. Keep up the good work and I have a pretty good idea who should succeed me.” My heart beats furiously against my chest, and if my smile widens anymore, it’s bound to cut my cheeks.
“Thank you, sir,” I mutter, unable to wipe the grin from my face. That’s exactly what I wanted to hear. It seems everything’s about to be going right in my life.
I usually wait for the proverbial shoes to drop, but this time … I’m going to try something a little different. I’m going with the flow and taking every moment for what it’s worth. And this moment…it’s the greatest one I think I’ll ever experience with the exception of the day I get married and the birth of my children. This day will never be forgotten.
Getting back to my desk, a text from Nolan is waiting for me with the address of the bar I’m meeting him at this weekend. So much for that other shoe.
Chapter Three
Loren
With a long and exciting work day behind me, I’m a little more than ready to hit the town with my best friend. Walking through the front door, I drop all my belongings in the living room, crank up some music and mosey into the kitchen in search for a good bottle of wine. Finding a delicious white, I pop the cork, pour a generous glass and pop in a few frozen blueberries to keep it chilled.
Dancing my way through the house, I sip at my drink and begin discarding my clothes, letting them land wherever they may. When I finally reach the bathroom, I take a large swig from my glass and start a bath, making sure the water is as hot as my body can handle. In the mirror, I stare at myself as the room begins to fog and the glass becomes cloudy.
I’m a catch. I’m a beautiful, successful woman. I have everything going for me. Any man would be lucky to have me.
It’s my mantra, if you will. Something I tell myself before I get ready for the night. Granted, I’m not meeting Nolan for a few days, but you never know. I could walk into this bar and find the perfect guy. It’s possible I meet my future husband tonight, so if reassuring myself of my qualities in the mirror makes me feel better, puts me on my A game, and reminds me not to settle, I’m okay with it.
Grabbing a clip from the shelf above the toilet, I pin my hair above my head so I don’t have to waste time washing and curling it again. As soon as the tub’s nearly full, I turn off the water, remove the rest of my clothing and carefully step into the bath, mindful of the scalding hot water that makes my toes tingle in the weirdest way as they adjust to the temperature. It takes a few moments, but I’m finally able to sink my entire body in the water. It’s absolutely fabulous.
I take a sip of my still ice cold wine, place a washcloth over my eyes, rest my head back and sing along to the song playing from the living room. When my body’s perfectly pruned, I make quick work of running a razor over my legs and underarms and scrub my body with an exfoliating wash. Satisfied with the softness of my body, I climb out and wrap up in a fluffy, oversized towel.
Not forgetting to bring my wine glass, I head into my bedroom, the closet to be more specific, in search of the perfect outfit. Shifting hangers around, I decide on a short d
enim skirt, low cut, fitted shirt and I debate for a moment on whether to wear flip flops or boots. Then my favorite, worn, dark brown cowboy boots catch my attention. Checking my reflection in the mirror, I’m satisfied with my appearance. Sexy, but not slutty. Classy, but not over-dressed.
ME – Be there in 10
After sending the quick text to Cleo, I polish off my wine and slightly touch up my makeup, adding a little darker hues to my eyelids and a pale pink on my lips. I put on a light jacket and grab my keys. Plugging my phone into the speakers of the car, I crank my get pumped song and make the short drive to Cleo’s house. Melissa Etheridge’s raspy voice has me tapping my hands on the steering wheel and singing along word for word.
The song closes and starts to play again. Thank God for repeat. I’m killing the chorus when I pull into Cleo’s driveway and beep the horn. She strolls out of the house, looking very similar to me.
“It’s a Melissa kinda night?” she asks, getting situated in her seat. Music determines my moods and she knows them all. If Melissa is on, she knows I’m drinking and she gets to drive home. Adele means that I’m sad and she should come over only if she’s willing to bring ice cream. Disturbed is a clear indication that I’m going to break shit; hide the valuables. And Keith Sweat is a sign that I’m about to get some, or have already.
“You mind?” She never does. Even if she did, it’s not often I call her to go out to a bar, she wouldn’t say a damn thing.
“Nope. Kick it again.” She pulls a tube of lip gloss from her bag before she sets it on the floorboard. I already know Cleo’s getting prepared for her solo at the end and that shiny gloss will double as her microphone. Contrary to popular belief, we’re quite mature … most of the time, anyway.
“Repeat.”
I already looked up the directions to the bar and it’s pretty close to the nail salon I go to. Thankful that I won’t need my GPS, Cleo and I belt out the entire song, emphasizing that we’re the only ones for the short drive. By the time we reach our destination, my throat already hurts, but that’s not anything a cold beer and a few shots of whiskey won’t cure.
Locking up the car, we head inside where we’re met by a giant elephant of man. Like, seriously, this man, if you can call him that, could serve as a wall. My boots give me an extra inch or so and I’m still staring at his pecs. It’s ridiculous.
“ID’s, ladies,” he asks with his putting-Barry-White-to-shame deep voice.
Handing over my license, he studies it, alternating between looking at me and the plastic. After he does the same to Cleo, he ushers us through the door where we’re slapped with a rap song playing softly over the speakers. We find a table with a decent view of the stage where a band’s setting up. The waitress stops at a few tables before reaching ours.
“What can I get you ladies tonight?” Wow, everyone in this place must assume we’re ladies. If they only knew.
“Two Bud Lights and four shots of Jack, please,” I order for both Cleo and myself. We’re not very adventurous when it comes to our drinks. Shoot the whiskey to get the buzz and drink the beer to keep it up. It’s a fairly easy formula. And it works every time.
Cleo and I are both bouncing in our seats to the new song playing when the waitress returns. Handing over my credit card, I open a tab, ready to really celebrate. What was supposed to be a recon mission has turned into a full-blown girls’ night.
“To your promotion,” Cleo hollers, raising her shot glass. I follow suit, clinking my glass with hers, knocking it against the table, then finally putting the shot to my lips and letting the liquid fire burn its way to my nearly empty stomach.
“To your new fella,” I offer, following the same protocol as last time, only this time chasing it with a swallow of my beer.
We spend a few minutes talking about what my new position will entail, but we’re interrupted when the lead singer of the band takes the microphone. “Y’all ready for us?”
A few women sitting closer to the stage hoot and holler, getting out of their seats to stand at the base of the platform.
“We added a few songs to our set. Hope you enjoy. Guys,” he says, stomping his foot and strumming a few chords on his guitar. I should have known by the jeans, boots and hat it was a country band. I’m not saying I don’t like country music, I just prefer a lot of other stuff … like Disney soundtracks.
They open with an older Tim McGraw song I know but it doesn’t make me want to get up and dance like some of these other women. And Cleo’s not far behind. I should have known. She has her guy now, but the one weakness this girl has is a man in tight jeans, a cowboy hat and if he can sing, he’s winning in her book. While she sways with the other girls, mesmerized by the band, I take this as my opportunity to scope out the bar for my date with Nolan this weekend.
I handle my business in the restroom, confirming there is a window I could climb out of if the situation presented itself. Granted, it would take a little work and determination to get up to the window and make it safely down, but if he happens to be a serial killer and nothing like what he looks like online, I could make it work. I also find a backdoor through the kitchen if the whole scaling the walls like Spiderwoman fails. All in all, my bases are covered for the weekend.
When I make it back to the table, Cleo’s still twirling on the dance floor as they break into a Kenny Chesney song. The singer is really good. I’m surprised they’re playing in this little hole in the wall, but whatever’s good for them, I guess. I’m interested in seeing his face. The way his hat covers his face when he’s bent forward at the mic’s pissing me off. His jeans fit just right, giving me the slight glimpse of what he’s working with underneath, and his voice… Shit, his voice is sexy as he drawls out the lyrics. I’m going to need him to raise the hat. Now.
When the Kenny song closes, Cleo makes her way back to the table and orders another round, which I tell the waitress to put on my tab. As the drinks arrive, I slam back my shot to Cleo’s toast of “Girls’ nights are the best,” and swig my beer. It’s all hitting a little heavy in my stomach. I really should order some fries or something, but I ignore the feeling and let the hazy feeling wash over me.
“This band’s really fucking good,” Cleo yells over the music.
“I know. The lead singer looks pretty hot, too,” I joke, knowing she’s already made that assessment.
“Girl, you have no idea. You should see him. He’s the perfect male specimen. I think he’d even be your type.”
“I promise you. From here, at least, I wouldn’t kick him out of my bed for eating crackers.” Cleo laughs so hard she spits beer on the table. I grab a few napkins and clean up her mess, giggling along with her. Just as I’m about to tell her we should call it a night soon, the band strikes a chord of a song I actually know and love.
“I’m dancing,” I quip, jumping out of my seat and rushing to the dance floor, my half full beer in tow. Swaying along to the song, I’m in my zone. The band gets into the first chorus of their Ready, Set, Roll by Chase Rice cover and they’re fucking good. I won’t lie, though. When the second verse picks up and I know that Chase does a little rap thing, I’m worried this singer won’t be able to make it work, but hell if I’m wrong. Wrong as shit.
“Wow,” I mutter, finally close enough to get my first real visual of this amazing singer. When he lifts his head from the microphone, his light blue eyes hit mine and his smile lights up the room. And his dimples.
His dimples.
Mr. Fucking Dimples.
It’s him.
I think he recognizes me, too. His eyes never leave mine as he finishes the song. As soon as the drummer brings them out of the song, he signals for a break.
“We’re gonna take a short break, y’all. Make sure to stick around, though. New songs coming up when we’re back.” He climbs off the stage and heads directly for me, where I’m frozen in the same spot I’ve been in since I saw those dimples.
“Loren?” he asks, his voice just as sultry as when he sings.
This kind of thing doesn’t happen to girls like me. Girls like me date the assholes. The ones who tell you they love you while they’re thinking about fucking your best friend. Or don’t have a job and want you to support them and their video game habit. Or even the ones who think mom’s basement is really cozy and there’s not really a reason to leave if she’s willing to foot the bills.
We don’t meet sexy cowboys who can sing better than some of the guys on the radio. Who have hard muscles and smiles that make you weak in the knees. Or offer to buy you a drink. Shit, he’s talking.
“Loren? Are you okay?”
“Yeah. Sorry. What did you say?”
“Let me take you back to your table and get you a drink. I have a few minutes before I have to be on stage again,” he offers, smiling genuinely.
I nod my head and Nolan places his hand on the small of my back. A simple gesture, something that’s not original, but when he touches me I feel a shift in the air. It might not be as simple as I thought because it feels like so much more.
“Cleo, this is Nolan. Nolan, my best friend Cleo,” I introduce the pair as we approach my table.
“It’s a pleasure to meet ya,” Nolan drawls and Cleo’s jaw drops, as do her eyes. She slowly recovers, taking in every inch of Nolan before her eyes meet his again.
“Pleasure’s all mine,” she seductively responds and I not so kindly pinch her thigh under the table. Her gaze diverts to me and I give her a subtle ‘back the fuck off’ look which she understands immediately.
“So, how do you know Loren?” she asks, smiling sweetly.
“Just met her right now.” He could have easily said we were talking on a dating site, but chose to be a gentleman and not reveal my secret. Not that I have them with Cleo, but he doesn’t know that. The fact that he didn’t want to risk embarrassing me speaks volumes in my book.
Claim: Volume One Page 2