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After everything they've said, I don't have the heart to tell my friends I can't afford to take a timeout. I'm behind my schedule for buying my own place, and six months is far too long to hit pause on my search for Mr Right. However, my friends and their genuine concern has given me something to think about. While they've joked about it before, I had no idea they felt so strongly about my list. And the fact I can't remember the last time I had fun is an indicator that perhaps there are some things I need to do differently.
For example, I could go out with the girls a bit more. I do tend to socialize more with them between break-ups becauseI like to leave date nights free for the man I'm dating. Not something I'm particularly proud of right now. Kara is right about me not having much fun lately. Perhaps it's even worth considering going on a date with a cute bartender like Sam. Flirting with him is more fun than I've had in a long time. One date won't hurt anybody, and it might satisfy my friends if I go out with someone who doesn't fit the criteria on my list. I don't need to take a timeout to go on one or two dates.
"Uh-oh," Tori whispers, looking over at the door.
My stomach clenches as I contemplate what – or rather who – might have elicited such a response from my friend. Reluctantly, I follow Tori's gaze over to the door in time to see Dylan James wiping his black boots on the mat at the door before strutting over to the bar as if he owns the place. Just like always, my heartrate doubles and my palms turn clammy at the sight of him. It doesn't matter how much he annoys me, irritates me, and drives me crazy; I've had this reaction to him ever since my brother brought Dylan home and introduced us.
Dylan high-fives everyone behind the bar before he walks over to the electronic jukebox in the corner, waving to and greeting many of the patrons as he passes them. The rock song that was playing stops abruptly and a popular dance track blares out from the speakers around us. A cheer goes up from behind the bar and from some of the patrons who greeted Dylan a moment ago. Dylan grins before walking back to the bar and vaulting over it like the show-off he is.
"Should we go?" Tori asks.
"Why?" Kara asks. "It's just Dylan. And we were here first."
There is no 'just' about it. Dylan James is the last person I wanted to see tonight, or any time, really. But I don't want to leave. Not now that my friends have finished their intervention. I haven't touched my drink yet, and I'd planned on having more than one with the girls tonight. Hopefully, my friends will takepity on me and order my drinks for me so I can stay at the table, leaving Dylan none-the-wiser about my presence in the bar tonight.
After receiving a few slaps on the back from his colleagues, Dylan walks out of sight and into a room behind the bar. The next time he appears, he's ditched his black leather jacket. The shiny grey shirt he's wearing is unbuttoned at the top and he rolls the sleeves up his forearms before starting to serve drinks. His messy, dark hair is swept over his forehead like always.
Sam, the sexy barman, says something that causes Dylan to look up and laugh, and then Sam starts actively searching the crowd for someone. Me! Not wanting to appear rude, I reluctantly wave back when he grins at me. I can pinpoint the exact moment Dylan realises I'm the one Sam is waving to because he stops smiling and starts frowning. Great. The chances of getting out of Brody's without having to speak to Dylan are now officially non-existent.
2
Dylan
The desire to punch one of my bartenders into tomorrow isn't a feeling I'm familiar with, but as Sam grins, the good mood I walked into work with flies out the window and my fist aches with the need to hit something.
“You gave my Claire your phone number?"
Horror quickly replaces the smug look on Sam's face. "Your Claire?"
"My Claire," I repeat, feeling less like a civilized human and more like a caveman.
Even from across the room, I know the brunette with the caramel-streaked updo is Claire Chase. She's wearing her work clothes: grey slacks and a white, no-frills blouse – standard attire for the most sensible woman I know. For years now, she's been dressing the part of someone who's looking for stability, steering clear of anyone looking for a fun time. Thank goodness, I might add. My knuckles would be pulverized by now if I'd had to run interference with all the unworthy guys sniffing around her.
Her heart-shaped face is arguably her greatest asset; her eyes are neither blue nor green, but somewhere in between. Her nose is as modest as the rest of her, but cute as hell, and those lips...She has the most luscious lips I've ever seen, full and sensual. She rarely wears lipstick, but she likes her lip gloss, that's for sure. Once, I pissed her off by upending her handbag and reading the names off some of the lip gloss tubes that rolled out. Like Cocoa and Cherry, Raspberry and Ice, Strawberries and Cream. All perfectly edible. Over the years, I've spent waytoo much time thinking about her lips – imagining the way they would feel pressed against my neck, my chest, my stomach, my—
"She flirted with me," Sam says, breaking the runaway daydream.
I shake my head, trying to dislodge the image of Claire's lips since it's clearly messing with my brain function.
"Claire doesn't flirt with us mere bartenders, Sam. She dates those Wall Street types."
Which is for the best. Sure, the suits she dates lack personality, but Claire is safe with them. One day she'll find one she really likes and marry him. Even if the thought gives me a twinge of discomfort in the heart area, a Wall Street type is what she's always wanted. Aside from the time she briefly lost her mind and decided she wanted to date me, of course. That phase didn't last long, which was just as well. Her brother and I both know she would never be happy with me.
"But you're dating her?" Sam asks.
"Nope. She's like a little sister to me."
The words mock every naughty thought I've ever had about my ‘sister’. I've told myself Claire is ‘family’ enough times that it should have sunk in by now. The mental beatings I regularly give myself stop me from making a fool of myself and lunging at her. They don't, however, stop the errant thoughts that assault me every time I'm within a five-mile radius of her.
Sam frowns. "I thought you were an only child."
"We're not related by blood, but she is family. And I kind of inherited her when Austin went to Queensland."
"Wait, she's Austin's little sister?"
"Yup."
"Shit."
