by Tia Souders
To say he was in a crap mood was an understatement. But he hadn’t bargained for Marti—hadn’t expected to feel such a magnetic pull toward a woman who was clearly unafraid of bailing on her date for seemingly superficial reasons. But besides being beautiful, the charade with her and the bartender made him laugh. And that was saying something.
He stared at her, letting his gaze linger over the auburn waves of her hair, spilling down her back, and her striking blue eyes. She was funny and opinionated and a good distraction. Maybe that was precisely what he needed.
“The truth is, I go on all kinds of dates, some of them wild, some boring, or even crazy, and then I write about them.”
He frowned. “You write about them?”
When she nodded, he hooked a thumb toward the door. “But that guy lasted about five minutes. What could you possibly write?”
She shrugged. “I embellish.”
“You mean, you lie.”
Her mouth dropped open in feigned offense. “I do not lie. I stretch the truth. I make my encounters more interesting or funny or exciting.”
“And where exactly are you writing about these stretched truths? Your diary?”
“No.” She sneered. “It’s a little more glamorous than that.
He picked his beer back up but paused with it halfway to his mouth as something clicked. A glimmer of recognition. A spark led to a flicker of a photo in his head. He knew her face.
Suddenly everything made sense.
He pointed at her, his mouth agape. “I know you. You’re that girl from the chick magazine.”
“PopNewz,” she supplied.
He snapped his fingers. “You write that feminist column. The single one. The city paper features you sometimes. Your last name is McBride, but what’s the column called?”
“Single in the City,” she snapped.
He tipped his head back, roaring with laughter, while she glared at him.
Once he caught his breath, he assessed her with fresh eyes. Everything she’d said thus far hit home. “Whoa, wait.” He whistled and stared at her in wide-eyed shock. “So, you exploit these men?”
Marti rolled her eyes. “Exploit? That’s a strong word when most of these men are more than willing for me to date them, ditch them, and write about it. They’re not dumb. They know it’s over before it’s started.”
“Why would they let you do that?”
A smile snaked across her beautiful face. “Because everybody wants their five minutes of fame.”
“You’re telling me, these men let you sell lies to hordes of gossip-seeking-fans, all for the sake of having their name in a magazine.”
“Not just any magazine.” Marti pointed at him with her glass. “The magazine. The largest, biggest, thriving digital and print magazine in the country, PopNewz.”
“That’s insane.”
“Insane or not, they like it, and I get my story. It’s a win-win.” She shrugged, looking as if she hadn’t a care in the world.
Nothing she said even fazed her. She was coldblooded. She wasn’t the Queen of Single, she was The Ice Queen.
“What if you actually end up liking one of them? What then?” he asked, because he had to know. Surely, this woman wasn’t that frigid.
“Impossible.”
His brows rose to his hairline. On second thought . . .
“It won’t happen because I don’t want to be tied down. Ever. I don’t want the big house and the white picket fence with the dog in the yard. I like going back to my apartment alone. I like being free to do whatever I please when I wake up on the weekend, whether it be stay in bed till ten, or get coffee and a bite at Absolute Bagels. I have my own routine. One where I answer to no one. I only need to worry about myself, which makes life easy. There are zero expectations in my life other than my own. If I want cereal for dinner, I eat in front of the TV with a giant bowl of Lucky Charms. Or, if I want company and something a little fancier, I call up a friend. Simple.”
“Sounds lonely.”
“Or practical. Or I don’t know . . . like freedom, perhaps? I have an amazing job I love with readers who adore me and two of the most amazing friends a girl could ask for. What more do I need?”
“I can think of a few things.”
“Like?” she asked, her eyes flashing with annoyance.
Apparently, she didn’t like being challenged, which only made him want to push her even more.
“Companionship. Love.” He took another sip of his beer, noticing the instantaneous curl of her lip at his suggestion, then leaned into her.
She crossed her legs, angling her body toward him while running a hand through her hair. When he caught the scent of something floral, he suppressed the urge to close his eyes and breathe her in.
“I don’t need a man to have those things.” Her shoe brushed his ankle.
“You say the word ‘man’ like it’s poison.”
“Not poison, just completely unnecessary.”
He glanced at her heart-shaped mouth and licked his lips. “Most people want a partner in life, someone to share things with. And you’re what . . . How old?”
“Twenty-five.” She smirked.
“Right. Twenty-five, so you’re young. How do you know in five years’ time you won’t get lonely and want someone to share things with? Sooner or later your friends will start settling down, if they haven’t already, and then you’ll be sitting in your apartment all alone, with nothing but your precious magazine to keep you company.”
“Sounds amazing.”
He chortled and nursed another sip of his beer. This lady was a real piece of work.
“I love my life,” she continued. “I love being single. And even if I decided I did lack a little companionship, marriage is not in the books for me.”
“Ah, I see,” he said with a knowing grin.
She straightened, her spine so rigid he thought it might snap. “What do you see, exactly?”
“You’re not just single because of the column you write. You’re one of those anti-relationship chicks that have a wall up so high no man could ever climb it. You wear it proudly like a coat of armor. I can see it right now,” he said, placing a hand on his forehead as if trying to see better and squinting down at her chest.
“While I appreciate your oh-so-subtle excuse to look at my boobs, my eyes are up here.” She pointed to her vibrant baby blues, and he grinned.
“Isn’t this the part where you deny everything I just said?”
She uncrossed her legs and shifted further back in her seat. “For your information, I don’t have a wall up. Why is it that a woman can’t be single and happy? Why do people always assume that she’s either putting up a front or that there’s something wrong with her?”
“Ah, so now we’re going the feminist route. Are you going to accuse me of being sexist too?”
“Maybe.” She smiled sweetly.
“I’m not saying that women can’t be single and happy. I think lots of people are single and happy. But there’s an expiration date on it. I know people. And people are intrinsically happier when they’re in love or when they have someone to share things with. If you look at life, love is at the root of everything we do.” He shrugged. “It is the basis for ninety-nine percent of the songs on the radio. It’s at the heart of more than sixty-percent of movies and television. The clock on your happiness is ticking. Sooner or later, you’re going to want someone to love. You just don’t know it yet.”
Marti snorted. “That’s total BS.”
Logan’s eyes hardened on hers and his lips curved. She was jaded. Why on earth did it bug him so much?
“Maybe. Maybe not. But in my field of work, I’m around people all day, particularly women. Sometimes I get to know them quite well, and I know enough to see you have a barrier up the size of Texas. That’s why you don’t want someone in your life. Not some feminist agenda to live the single life. None of this Sex and the City crap. And once your friends all get hitched or find serious partners, they
’ll be so busy with their new lives that you will come second. It’s only natural. After a while, you’re going to want to be number one in someone’s life too. That’s not a negative thing. It’s just the way it is.”
“That’s absurd. Women don’t just ditch their friends once they get married. And for the record, the show Sex and the City was so popular because women want the single life—they dream about it—the life I have, the one I’m going to continue to build.”
He grunted. “That show is the worst thing that ever happened to women. It’s a fraud, just like your column, by the way.”
Her face tightened. The heat of her anger turned the tips of her ears red. How cute.
Better plow on while he had the chance. “The producers put the word single in the title and think everyone’s going to buy into this feminist ideology of what the single life is like and how great it is, when in fact, those women did nothing but look for men. They were never happy single. The entire show was about them dating, hooking-up, and falling in and out of love. Kind of like I imagine the content of your column, minus the love part.”
She sucked in a breath. The hollows of her cheeks deepened, razor sharp.
He knew he had her, but she’d never admit it. If he had learned anything about this woman in the last twenty minutes, it was about her pride. She had a lot of it, and he was guessing she didn’t admit defeat easily.
Her nostrils flared. “And what field, exactly, do you work in?” she snapped. “Are you a hair dresser or something? Do you work at a salon, coaxing women into spilling their life stories to you while massaging fifty-dollar shampoo into their scalps?”
He stifled a chuckle. If she only knew. . .
“Something like that. Maybe a bit less glamorous.”
“I guess you’re so great, then? Mr. Perfect. You’re not like 90% of men and a relationship-phobe? Just looking to get a woman in bed?”
“That’s a rather stereotypical view of men, don’t you think? One that is unfair and inaccurate. Men get a bad rap, in part fueled by ridiculous television like the show you mentioned.”
“Oh, okay.” She snickered. “So, you want all those generic things? I bet a woman barefoot and pregnant is your dream. I can just see you now, sipping your beer while she shines your shoes.”
“Oh, come on.”
Her mouth thinned and she lifted her chin in challenge.
“Fine.” He waved a hand in front of him. “If you’re asking if I want to get married and have a family of my own, I guess I do. I want it all. The relationship, commitment, kids.” He shrugged, unapologetic. She’d probably keel over from the shock of his words. “I guess I’m just that guy. The kind you, apparently, loathe.”
She turned and took a sip of her seltzer water, then stared across the bar, avoiding his gaze. “First of all, I don’t loathe men that want relationships. I just think they’re like unicorns, mythical at best. And secondly, is that why you’re at a bar on a Saturday night? Because this is the prime place to find the mother of your future children?”
Her words stabbed, hitting their mark, and his smile faded. “No, that wouldn’t be why I’m here. I had a long day, and like a lot of guys, I find a little relief in a good beer and friendly conversation.”
“Funny. I hadn’t realized this conversation was friendly,” she quipped.
He shook his head. “This isn’t my usual scene.”
“Oh, really? What is?”
“Just about anywhere else is classier. Usually, women in places like these are a little wanting.” His gaze slid down her body before meeting her eye again.
“Nothing but easy targets or walls up around here, is that right?” She raised a brow, her face a careful mask, but he knew better. She was two seconds away from snapping. Her defenses were so high he was surprised she could see over them.
He lifted a shoulder in a casual shrug and let it fall, trying to school his expression into one that said he didn’t care, while admittedly his insides clenched with regret. This was the most interesting conversation he’d had with a woman in a long time. It figured. He finally found a woman who valued honesty and kept him on his toes, and it was her—the ultimate commitment-phobe. With Allison, she was always saying the right thing and pretending to be something she wasn’t—placating him. Their whole relationship was a lie.
He thought about his next words. They would determine the tone for the rest of their conversation. He could play nice. Or he could say what he really wanted to say.
Nice was overrated.
“Some walls are worth climbing. Some aren’t,” he said with a pointed look.
She sneered at him in response, and he couldn’t blame her. He was being an A-class jerk. The woman had a right to her opinion. If she wanted to build the Berlin wall around her heart, why the heck did he care? It was none of his business. But something about her indifference got under his skin. Maybe it was his past with Allison clouding his opinions of her. He’d just come from seeing her, after all. Whatever it was, it bothered him far more than it should.
And that’s how he knew it was his cue to leave. Because women like Marti broke men like him, and he’d had enough broken hearts to last a lifetime.
He stood and threw a twenty on the bar top before he could fling any more insults. “I should probably go.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. If he didn’t, he might reach out and touch her.
No point in wanting something you couldn’t have.
“I wish you nothing but happiness, McBride. I hope your column keeps you warm at night.” With a smirk, he turned and left.
“I’ll be fine without someone. Perfectly happy,” she called out behind him.
He raised a hand in answer, then pushed open the pub door and stepped into the whipping wind without a backward glance.
Sure you will.
CHAPTER THREE
MARTI
MARTI STRETCHED BACK in her chair, propping her Converse chucks on the edge of her desk, setting her skinny jean-clad legs on display. All her coworkers were chattering about the hot contractor their boss had hired to fix the ceiling tile, but Marti couldn’t focus. Much to her chagrin, her thoughts continued to shift to the man she met at the pub.
Logan. His name buzzed through her thoughts like a pesky fly—unwelcome and hard to ignore. He thought he was so smart with his perfect smile, and his perfect hair, or his gorgeous green eyes. Blech.
She should be focusing on a plan to get out of this boyfriend idea her boss had concocted. To say it was an unreasonable request for Marti to enter into a relationship solely for the sake of her column was an understatement. But it was either comply with her request and find some poor soul to rope into a relationship or think up another solution.
She was all for brainstorming. An idea that didn’t make her want to swim in a pool of cyanide would be nice.
Yet there she was, thinking of him, instead of focusing on a resolution.
Since when did she get hung up on a guy?
Never, that’s when. It was starting to irritate her. I mean, who did he think he was?
So what if he was slightly accurate in his description of her as being guarded? He was totally off base otherwise. What self-respecting female in the twenty-first century didn’t guard her heart? She was sane. More than sane, she was smart. End of story.
Gosh, he thought he was so special with his dreams of marriage and babies and his desire to settle down.
Marti snorted. He wasn’t that great, not even with his enticing stubble, a jaw cut from stone, or eyes the same shade as emeralds. His above average appearance didn’t make him an expert on women, especially not her.
“If only the view were this nice every day,” Karen, the administrative coordinator—a.k.a. the receptionist—murmured as she patted her short brown hair into submission and slid past Marti’s desk.
Marti smiled at her, then snatched her coffee cup and took a sip, eyeing the man the women had been drooling over for the past fifteen minutes. He wore a dirty white t-s
hirt and jeans with a tool belt slung around his hips. The muscles in his arms flexed as he removed the damaged ceiling tiles one-by-one. A textbook cliché. One she wasn’t into. Unlike mysterious men with dark hair, twinkling eyes, and too many opinions, a voice inside whispered. She promptly told it to shut up.
From the cubicle next to her, Caroline wheeled over in her chair and stuck her pencil through her blond bun. “Read about your date this weekend.” Her lips quirked. “Or should I say, dates?”
Marti grunted. “Do you know how exhausting blind dates are, let alone adding an egotistical megalomaniac to the mix who thinks he knows you better than yourself? There’s nothing funny about that.”
Of course she wrote about him. It was her job to give a play-by-play on her life, and Logan was most definitely part of her weekend. Like it or not, her interaction with him had provided her with far more interesting writing material than boring Tim... Or was it Todd?
The article went a little something like this . . .
It’s not a coincidence Ariana Grandes’ release, “Thank U, Next,” broke the internet in 2018. A new movement is afoot, has been for years. She only affirmed what women everywhere already knew but hadn’t fully embraced for fear of recrimination—that we no longer need to search for love and acceptance in the form of a man. We have ourselves, and that’s enough. It’s better than enough. It’s quite perfect, actually.
But not according to one such man I met this weekend. For the sake of this column, I’ll call him Logan-The-Great since he’s so worldly and wise, unlike myself.
It was following my disastrous date, where I cursed myself for falling into the vast pit of societal pressure to seek male companionship on a Friday, that I had my run-in with LTG.
In the short span of our encounter, he managed to mock me, tear down my desire to be single, and try his hand at playing therapist. According to him, all women ultimately desire love and can only find true happiness in the form of a romantic partner.
Still listening? If not, pay attention. Yes, you, over there, enjoying your morning coffee in solitude. I’m talking to you. Guess what? According to Logan-The-Great, there must be a reason you don’t want a man. It can’t possibly have anything to do with finding happiness within yourself. You’re not living unless you need a member of the opposite sex to complete you. You’re defective, damaged. Because no one could possibly be happy single.