Reeve couldn’t find himself even the slightest bit interested in the two of them, which was probably stupid since it had all the signs of a sure thing. But no, he’d already laid eyes on the woman who interested him tonight. And right then Reeve decided that if the opportunity presented itself, he was going to speak with her. Just for kicks. If nothing else, he wouldn’t mind watching her do that phone trick up close.
* * *
Emily Phillips was a complete failure when it came to partying. Not that it never happened; sometimes it occurred by accident. Like the time she’d thought she spent the evening drinking virgin daiquiris at a cousin’s wedding back home, only to end up drunk at a karaoke bar with strangers until three in the morning. That had been fun. She’d let herself go and even made out with a hunky guy for an hour. That was, until she’d had to go home and face the real music. Even at twenty-one years old—and her first time ever sneaking into the house in the middle of the night—her asshole stepfather had managed to make her feel like shit for “risking the family’s reputation.”
Emily didn’t know if it was her genetic makeup, or growing up under the oppressive influence of Brigadier General Allen Strickland, but party girl was not her style. That sort of recklessness might appeal to some, but she knew that kind of behavior in general was neither wise nor reasonable.
Now a successful woman on her own, she preferred subtler pleasures. A hot bath after a long day was one of her favorite pastimes. Reading the most recent best-selling business book was a great way to spend an evening. She even enjoyed a takeout-and-Netflix binge on the weekends when she didn’t have extra work to do. But what she found herself doing right now, this grinding with strange men at a dive bar and making a fool of herself? This was foreign and utterly ridiculous. Her only defense was that it was the bachelorette party of her oldest friend, Amanda, so concessions had been necessary. Including the awful and gratuitous blinking headband she was sporting. But everyone else was still wearing their penis headbands and since she never wanted to be the Debbie Downer in the group, hers had remained firmly in place.
This was her third visit to the dance floor this evening, surely an adequate number, so she felt safe retreating once again. As Emily wiped her damp brow and glanced around at the beefy cowboy dancing behind her, she gave him an awkward smile and headed off the dance floor to resume her self-appointed position as official purse-sitter. But first she made her way to the long bar on the far side of the building, cringing as the shiny red soles of her favorite black chiffon Louboutins stuck to the nasty beer-soaked floor with every step.
She pushed her way between two men facing opposite directions and leaned forward in order to get the bartender’s attention. For such a dump, the place was packed. Of course it was Saturday night, but they were in the middle of nowhere—Amanda’s choice. She’d wanted a dive bar and that was certainly what this was. The clientele was a mix of country bumpkin, weird old guys, and college Greeks. An interesting assortment, no doubt. But at least it wasn’t a trendy yuppie pickup bar. Emily shuddered imagining how the night would have been different surrounded by MBAs convinced they were God’s gift.
The music at the dive represented the customer base, playing twangy country one minute and hip-hop the next, which made it seem like the place was having a massive identity crisis. Still, it seemed to be profitable.
The bartender was clearly busy and Emily wondered why there wasn’t a second on such a busy night. She tried repeatedly to make eye contact, even lifted her hand as he walked by. Nothing. Not even a nod of I’ll get to you when I get to you. She sighed, accidentally bumping the man to her right. He turned, eyed her, and his face slid into a leer that he probably thought was charming.
“Hey, Steve, this cutie needs a drink,” his voice called out over the music and voices.
Emily nearly rolled her eyes. Instead she cut the idiot a look. He smiled back at her. The misogynistic ass was under the impression he’d done her a favor. Of course it worked, damn it, and the bartender walked right up to her.
“I’ll take another vodka cran, please. With a lime.” She laid a five on the bar and watched as he filled the glass with ice and then sloppily poured her drink. No wonder the first one had given her such a buzz. Who was keeping track of this dive’s bottom line? Even a shithole like this should be run with some efficiency.
“I’ll start you a tab,” he said and began to walk away.
“Uh, no-no,” she said loudly before he got too far away to hear. She tapped her fingernail on the five-dollar bill. “I prefer to pay now, please.”
The bartender took a quick step back and held out his hand. “You can give me a card. Easier to run a tab.”
“Actually, I don’t run tabs. But thanks,” Emily said loudly over the buzz of voices as she firmly pushed the bill to the edge of the wood.
The man sighed deeply and his lips quirked. Clearly he didn’t want to deal with the bossy little lady. “Listen, sweetheart. If you didn’t notice, I’m busy. It will be easier for me to open you a tab.”
Well, then. She stood straighter. “Oh, I certainly did notice. Despite that, I’m going to have to disappoint you by not being a sweetheart when I point out that had you just immediately given me my change we could have avoided this awkward discussion altogether. In addition, considering this is a service establishment, I’m pretty confident the idea is to do what’s best for me, not you.” She sucked in a breath, her eyes trailing around the bar at the wide gazes staring back at her. She refused to feel ashamed for sticking up for herself, even though she was tempted to flip off the asshole at the end of the bar chuckling behind his beer.
“What a bitch,” she heard a woman near him say.
The burly bartender slapped his beefy hand down on the five-dollar bill before walking over to the cash register. She held back a wince as he slammed the cash drawer closed and then came back to lay down her change. Three quarters and three pennies.
“Anything else I can get you, doll?” His words oozed with sarcasm and thinly veiled anger.
Emily made a show of carefully separating the quarters from the pennies, pushing the latter in his direction, and picking up the quarters for herself. She gave him her most sincere tight-lipped smile before she replied. “No thank you. And while I usually base gratuity on the quality of service, you’ll see I’ve decided to be generous today.”
With that she grabbed her glass and turned around before letting out a long shaky sigh. Despite her ability to put on her work hat and speak with confidence off the cuff, it wasn’t always easy for her. But she’d learned the hard way not to take bullshit, especially from men. The key for her was to keep her cool. Let her words and the facts do all the talking, so to speak. No need to yell, get frantic, or even worse . . . cry. That was what they always expected.
Sitting down at the table, she took a sip of her drink and then discreetly pulled her phone from its hiding spot nestled between her dress and the side of her breast. She held back a smile as she opened the book app on her phone and found where she’d last left off in the fantastically trashy romance novel she’d been reading.
A few months ago she’d been on a business trip to LA when she’d picked up a small paperback novel in the airport gift shop on a whim. The woman behind the counter had seen her and pounced, holding up her own copy and droning on and on about how good the book was.
“Trust me, you will not regret it,” the cashier had said. “I’m almost done and don’t want it to end.”
Emily hadn’t read fiction in a while, and she’d instantly liked the cover—a scenic image of a field full of wildflowers. It had looked like maybe a sweet family drama or coming-of-age story.
But the outside had been incredibly deceiving, because nothing could have prepared her for the dirty-talking, motorcycle-riding, orgasm-inducing hero who graced the pages inside. There she’d been, thirty thousand feet in the air, more turned on than she’d ever been in her entire life.
The phrase life changing came to mi
nd when she thought back on that day, and at this point she’d bought every single one of that author’s books. In digital versions, of course, because some of the covers weren’t so . . . innocent. Including the one she was currently reading. It was another blue-collar, motorcycle-riding hero who was so bossy and crude, it was almost offensive. She’d never have guessed that it would be sexy for a man to be so wild and gruff. And yet when it mattered, he could turn on the charm and be the sweetest thing. He was fighting his love for the female hard, and Emily idly wondered if such a man existed off the pages of her books. And if so . . . would she really be attracted to the He-Man type in the real world? Admittedly, the hero was kind of an ass. But something about a man who saw what he wanted and went after it with wild abandon was so hot. Maybe because it wasn’t real. Just a fantasy. But the thought was inconsequential, because she’d likely never know.
After reading for a few minutes she glanced up to make sure her friends were still on the dance floor. They appeared to be having a blast, and she forced herself not to let that make her feel like a bachelorette party dropout. She’d never failed at anything, except having a good time. In high school when her friends were going to field parties and cruising, she was studying for her ACTs and trying to keep her GPA at 4.0. In college she barely had time to sleep and eat with her course load so there was definitely no time for extracurricular festivities. And now that she ran a multimillion-dollar company, she was busier than ever. In fact, this was the first time she’d seen her lifelong best friend, Amanda, in three months. Even that last time had been a quick coffee date.
Emily spotted a laughing Amanda on the dance floor. As if feeling her gaze, Amanda glanced over and gave Emily a pitiful smile. What’s that about? Did Amanda feel sorry for her? Annoyed, Emily plastered on a grin and gave a little wave to the ladies on the dance floor. There was no need for the other women to feel sorry for her. She really was just fine observing.
And reading about dirty sex in secret.
But as if to check in on a child in time-out, Amanda was making her way off the dance floor and heading in Emily’s direction.
“Are you still on your first drink?” Amanda asked as she sauntered toward the table. Emily quickly laid her phone facedown on the table before replying.
“For your information, this is my second drink. And I’m about to finish it.” Emily tossed back a healthy gulp of her vodka cranberry, winced, and then stared at Amanda.
“Oh, Em.” Amanda lovingly patted Emily’s head. “I wanted this night to be fun for you.”
“I am having fun. And in case you’d forgotten, this is your bachelorette party. Meaning you need to worry about you enjoying it. And by the looks of your flush I’d say it’s a success.”
“Yes, but you’re my friend and maid of honor so I want you enjoying it with me.”
“I said I am, don’t worry. I grinded with that tall cowboy, didn’t you notice? And dinner was amazing, I enjoyed the . . . entertainment, and now I’m enjoying you girls making fools of yourselves on the dance floor.” She was only partially lying. Dinner had been excellent, but the hour they’d spent at the strip club had been incredibly awkward.
Emily always wanted to be that girl, the one who laughed out loud, drew attention for being adorable and quirky, and threw caution to the wind. But outside that lone karaoke night when she’d been twenty-one, she knew it just wasn’t who she was. She was cautious. A critical thinker. She liked punctuality and decisiveness. Success wasn’t just a goal, for Emily. It was life or death. Okay, not really, but it sure as hell felt like it sometimes. Anything frivolous—like grinding on strangers while wearing light-up penises on your head—was just a distraction. And unnecessary. Sure her books made her yearn for a little crazy in her life, but the odds of that cowboy turning out to be the nasty-when-it-was-hot-and-sweet-when-necessary kind of guy were slim at best. More likely he would want drunk sex in the back of his pickup. Or be a full-time asshole like her step-father. No thank you to that.
The only frivolity she could get behind was shoes. Good shoes were always justified.
“Every time I look over here you’re working.” Amanda nodded at Emily’s phone.
Emily’s mouth dropped open. “Oh . . . no . . . I promise I haven’t been working . . .”
She wasn’t able to react fast enough as Amanda swiped her cell phone off the table and flipped it over. Emily’s cheeks flamed with embarrassment. She clamped her eyes shut just as she caught sight of Amanda’s going wide with shock.
“Oh. My. God.”
“I know, I know, I know. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be reading that. Especially during your bach—”
“This is the latest Becky Bradley.”
Emily gasped. “Do you read them, too?”
Amanda leaned forward, elbows on the table, and gave Emily her best are-you-kidding-me stare. “I’m obsessed with them. The last one, where Kayley gets taken by the stalker and then Wade goes and saves her before they have super-hot sex? Oh my God, I bawled my eyes out.”
Emily couldn’t believe it. She’d been so ashamed of reading these books. They were full of raunchy sex and far from classic literature. But she was enjoying them so much. “I did, too.”
“They’re so good and so hot. Devon and I have the best sex after I read one of those books.” Amanda was practically yelling in Emily’s ear to be heard over the noise of the bar, but she knew their conversation was still private.
Emily leaned toward her friend. “Does he know you read them?”
Amanda gave her an odd look. “Of course. He loves it.”
“Huh.” She was tempted to ask if Devon’s sex talk was as filthy as that of the guys in these books, but that seemed like too personal a question even for her and Amanda. Or maybe she just didn’t want to know that about Devon. No, more likely she didn’t want to feel jealous of her best friend.
“So the truth is out. I highly approve of you reading, but you can do that anytime. Tonight you should be dancing with me. Come on, one more dance and I’ll consider it a success.” Amanda stuck out her hand and smiled, but before they could stand up, a female server set another pink drink down in front of Emily.
Her head jerked up. “Oh . . . I didn’t order another one,” she yelled, trying to get the server’s attention before she got too far away.
The woman nodded toward the bar. “Courtesy of the gentleman.” Without waiting for Emily’s response—which would not have been forthcoming since she was too much in shock to speak—she made her way back toward the front of the room.
“Oh my goodness,” Amanda shrieked, craning her head toward the bar. “Which guy is it? Can you see?”
Emily finally found her voice. “I have no idea. I don’t want to look.” She’d been up there not twenty minutes earlier bitching at the bartender. What the hell?
“Well, you have to look,” Amanda cried. “You have to give the customary head-nod acknowledgment.”
Emily balked. “I’m not required to acknowledge a man who presumed I would accept a gift from him. Especially a consumable. He could have put drugs in it.”
Amanda rolled her eyes. “A server brought it to you from the bartender. Slipping a customer a Mickey is sort of bad for business.”
Yeah, if Amanda knew that Emily had just rubbed a three-cent tip in his face she might see the need for concern. Emily gave her a sidelong glance. “Isn’t the buying-a-drink practice a little dated and barbaric? ‘Me man. You woman. You drink alcohol.’”
Amanda laughed. “He didn’t revoke your voting rights, Em. He sent you a drink. You were sitting here drinking already, for goodness’ sake. It’s an opener.”
“An opener to what? I certainly don’t need a man to buy me a four-dollar drink to let me know he’s looking for a one-night stand.”
“True. You could probably write a check for this entire property faster than he could call the bartender back over. That’s not the point. And you don’t know he only wants a one-night stand.”
Emi
ly gave Amanda a side eye.
“Okay, he probably does. But maybe he’s hot. It could be fun. I mean, I’m as much of a feminist as you are, but sometimes it feels good to have a man be a man. You know? Like . . . in charge. Making the move. Kind of like a Becky Bradley hero. And don’t tell me you’re not looking for him. I see your eyes darting around.”
“Fine, I am curious.” Emily said. A large group of cowboys had just walked in and she didn’t have a clear sight to the far end of the bar thanks in part to their ridiculous hats. “But still, sending a drink over is just so . . . cliché.”
“Hmmm, you know what they say about a woman that protests a lot.”
Emily rolled her eyes and laughed. “You fail at Quoting Shakespeare 101.”
Amanda laughed. “I’m not ashamed of that, and now I’m going to walk away and hope that our mystery man comes over. And if he does, and he’s hot . . . consider saying yes. Or at least talking to him.”
“Amanda, no—”
Too late. Emily watched the backside of her friend disappear onto the dance floor. Trying for nonchalance, she glanced toward the bar once more. She had been looking for the mystery man. And the truth was, when that server had revealed that a gentleman had sent her a drink, a melty type of warmth had spread through her body. Men didn’t usually send her drinks across the room unless they were fellow businesspeople, or she was at an industry conference. Slimeballs and opportunistic businessmen abounded at the hotel bar in those situations. But this was different. Nobody knew her here. Chances were that this was from a countrified slimeball, but what if . . .
For a moment she looked down at the phone in her lap and found the last few sentences she’d read. His gaze never left hers as his fingers found her wet and ready for him. “I’m going to devour you, Sarah. Understand me?”
All I Ask Page 2