But you know what? I’m in the mood to make another mistake. It’s time to grab my suit jacket and find out what kind of trouble I can get into tonight.
Christmas Eve, New York City
I’m giving myself a man for Christmas. Yes, a man.
I can do this. Really, I can. I think. Maybe.
From just inside the door, I scan the fancy hotel bar, looking for a likely prospect. The warmth of the whiskey I drank at the after party buzzes through me in a happy hum. I needed more than a little liquid courage to talk myself into this plan. I think it’s safe to say that this is my first rodeo.
And of course, I had to choose something way out of my league. But who knew the hotel bar would be so dang fancy? The Rose Club at the Plaza. Fifth Avenue, New York City.
I stifle the urge to check the carpet for any traces of mud that might have fallen off my cowboy boots, and wonder if it’s the first time a Kentucky girl in honest-to-God shit-kickers has stepped into this joint. Although, these boots are part of my stage costume, so the fringe and rhinestone-encrusted leather is a heck of a lot nicer than the worn-out ones I left in my cubby on the bus.
The bluish-purple glow coming from the ornate domed light fixtures makes it look like someone dunked the whole room in grape juice, giving the bar a kind of otherworldly feel. One look at the handful of folks in here tonight makes it clear that these people are from a completely different planet than me.
But I push aside the comparison and venture closer to the shiny wooden bar. If I’m going to do this, I’m going to need another shot of that liquid courage.
I slide onto one of the velvet bar stools, absolutely aware of the fact that my tiny jean skirt is riding up my thighs. A man in a suit one stool down is eyeing my legs while he swirls the liquor in his glass. I can’t tell what color it is, because everything takes on the unnatural shade of the lights.
I’m grateful for those lights. Something about the color is mellow and sexy, and it gives me the guts to follow through with my plan.
My Christmas list may be short, but it’s certainly specific. One man with enough cockiness and a smoking-hot body to take my mind off the grief stalking me tonight.
I snag the drink menu and flip it open. It lands on exactly the page I need. American Whiskey. The best damn kind there is. My jaw drops when I read the prices.
“Holy shit. Sixteen dollars for Jack Daniel’s? What the hell? Did Jack rise from the grave and make that mash himself? Holy . . . damn.” My voice carries, and everyone in the room, including the bartender in his snazzy suit, turns to look at me.
The guy one seat over must take that as some sort of invitation, and slides onto the velvet stool next to me. His smile is as smarmy as his words.
“I’ll buy a pretty girl a drink.” He jerks his head toward the bartender. “Put whatever she wants on my tab.”
Well, that didn’t take long.
I drop my gaze quickly, and the paunch straining the buttons of his dress shirt quickly disqualifies him as having the smoking-hot body on my Christmas wish list. But maybe this is a situation where beggars can’t be choosers?
I’ve never been much of a barfly, but the few times I’ve ventured out after shows with the guys, it seems like I always get these business types who spend a little too much time on the road, and none of it hitting the hotel gym.
Resignation filters through me. Maybe this is as good as it gets? One thing is clear, even through the warmth of the whiskey—this is the dumbest idea I’ve ever had.
“Thank you, but I think I’m a little lost tonight.” I flip the menu shut. “I should probably just get back to my room.”
The label put me up at the Plaza as a goodwill gesture for doing the show on Christmas Eve; otherwise, I would never drop that kind of money on a hotel, even if I had that kind of cash to spare—which I don’t.
He lays a hand on my arm. “How can you be lost, when I just found you?”
The line is cheesy, and I’m not even sure it counts as a line. But either way, I’ll be better off with some room-service dessert and a pity party for one.
I slide off the edge of the stool, but his grip tightens before his hand lands on my leg, sliding up my skirt almost instantly.
“You can’t go yet. We haven’t even gotten acquainted. Just let me buy you a drink. I promise I’ll make it worth your while, sweetheart.”
Chills of ick run through me at his touch, and I struggle to slide out of his grip, but he’s got me trapped. Apparently he thinks I’m a hooker, but my skirt isn’t that short.
Reaching down to pry his hand off my leg, I dig my nails in, but he just squeezes tighter.
Seriously, world? This is what I get when I try to have some harmless fun? Not. Fair.