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Felix insisted on paying the rent for our place. At first, I declined. But he told me he doesn’t have a father and sister to take care of, like I do. So, I gave in. I insisted on paying for the groceries and the utilities, but it meant I could save the money I needed to help my dad with his treatments.
Now, everything is back to square one. I’ll have to move back into the cramped apartment with my three previous roommates—assuming that's still available—and even if it is, it means, once more, no space for Lizzie to spend her weekends. Also, I’ll have to cover the rent of wherever I move next. Ohmygod. How am I going to manage this? What’s worse, I'm also the woman who was stood up… At the altar. My pulse rate spikes. My heart begins to boom in my chest. I throw back my tequila, then slap the shot glass onto the counter.
You can plan all you want, but when you least expect it, something happens that teaches you, things were never within your control. I thought I was being smart accepting Felix’s proposal. Turns out, I was on the wrong track. I grip the edge of the bar counter and squeeze.
I told myself, the kind of love written by my favorite poets didn't exist in real life. Besides, I was focused on taking care of my father’s medical needs and paying my sister’s tuition. Which meant I had to work many hours to pay the bills. I didn’t have time to meet men, let alone the kind who’d sweep me off my feet. But don’t I deserve to feel the kind of passion outlined in those poems? Am I not worthy of a love as deep and as all-encompassing as Pablo Neruda wrote about? I never wanted to let myself believe in it, but clearly, I do.
I down another tequila and shake my head at myself. My sister is right. I need to be more spontaneous. But spontaneous enough to marry a stranger? And hopeful enough to believe his proposal was genuine? Can I allow myself to dream that a man who proposed to me out of the blue is going to sweep me off my feet and give me a chance to feel like the heroine of my own love story?
How can I contemplate a life with someone I never met before, who also happens to be my ex’s father? What madness is it that I’m thinking about him, instead of the ex who ditched me?
I shove the train of my wedding dress away. Yep, I got into the car that was parked outside—the car I rented and drove over, to which Stan affixed a "Just Married" sign, which I didn't pause to tear off. Luckily, my purse was in the glove compartment and the car was unlocked, with the key fob in the ignition, so I made a quick getaway.
I drove the car out of there and kept driving until the tears knocking at the back of my eyes threatened to overflow. And I was not going to let myself cry.
So, when I found a neighborhood pub, I pulled over. I'm, maybe, twenty minutes from the church, but this is far enough away that no one will find me. I stomped in here.
It's early evening, and the clientele is light. I scowled at the couple staring at me open-mouthed from across the room, until they looked away. Then, I glared at a man with a half-full mug of beer in front of him at another table. He hastily brought the glass to his mouth. I ignored them after that and marched up to the bar. I plonked myself onto a barstool and asked for a tequila.
Now, the bartender tops me up again.
I contemplate the golden liquid in the shot glass. The dim light picks out sparks at the bottom. Sparks that remind me of those in his blue eyes. Sparks which… I should ignore. I should be thinking of my almost-husband, instead of his hot-as-Lucifer, father.
Argh. That sounds gross. Not Lucifer. But the thought that the man I'm lusting after is my now-ex’s father. It’s enough to make me want to get completely drunk.
I throw down the shot and slap the glass on the counter. “Another, please.” I nod at the bartender.
He flashes me a smile, grabs the Jose Cuervo, and tops me up. “Everything okay?”
I scoff, “But for the fact I discovered my latent weakness for silver foxes—or rather, one silver fox in particular—and I might be suffering from Daddy issues, everything is peachy.”
I toss back the glass of tequila and slam it back on the counter, wiping the back of my palm across my mouth.
“Worse, he’s put me in a situation that seems impossible but might be the solution to all of my problems.” My shoulders droop. “Also, I’m running from the fact his son left me standing at the altar.”
“Oh?” He raises his eyebrows in surprise.
“One in four Americans overshare on social media, then regret it,” I respond.
“Is that a fact?” he exclaims.
“It is.” I half laugh. “And before you ask me how I know that, you should know, my brain stores up these facts without my trying. Weird, right?" I pop a shoulder. “Kids in high school thought so, too. Combined with the fact we moved to the UK from the States when I was five, it means I got picked on a lot. It was enough to turn me into an introvert. Try as I might to fit in, I haven’t lost my American accent completely.” I frown. “It doesn’t bother me now.” Having to worry about paying your bills will do that for you. Also, that tequila sure makes it easy to spill my thoughts.
“I’m sorry you had a hard time in school. High school is the worst, amirite?” He chuckles, then lifts the bottle of Jose. “Just for that, you deserve a free drink, but… I think you’ve had enough.”
“Aww.” I pout. “Please, please, please? I want to forget this shit show of a day, you know?”
He hesitates.
“Pl-e-e-e-ease?” I flutter my eyelashes at him. Anything to forget this stabbing sensation in my chest. Anything to forget a pair of blue eyes with silver sparks in their depths. Anything to forget the fact I could have said yes to a hot, handsome stranger and let him carry me away to his lair and have his way with me. “Pretty please?” I spoil the effect by hiccupping.
The bartender sighs. “Last one, and then I’m calling you a cab.” He spills more of the golden liquid into my shot glass.
I reach for the glass, but it’s snatched up by someone else.
"You’ve had enough,” a dark voice growls.
I turn to find Quentin sliding onto the stool next to me. The breadth of his shoulders, the way he blocks out the sight of everything else, the way his gaze sears me, sends a burst of heat up my spine. My thighs clench. My panties dampen. My nipples harden into bullets of need that take aim at him. It’s as if I manifested him from my thoughts.
