Seriously, what were you thinking, stupid? Did you honestly think you would be able to pull this off? What is wrong with you?!
Loneliness is what’s wrong with me. I’m lonely and so desperate for a change that I’m willing to do things I’ve never done before. But asking Justin for help was clearly not the solution to my problem. All I’ve done is freak him out on his birthday and force him to confess that he is among one of the many, many men in the world who find it distasteful to imagine me in bed without my clothes on.
God, I’m never going to live that down. Never.
I’m so embarrassed I can’t lift my gaze from the floor. I push through the crowd with my chin tucked to my chest, hurry around the edge of the dance floor as fast as my insanely-high heels will allow, and swing through the glass door leading out of the private party and into Bobo’s public bar, trying not to hyperventilate with shame. But my cheeks are hot, tears are rising in my eyes, and my ribs are doing their best to squeeze my heart into a puddle of misery juice. All I want to do is run home, dive under the covers, and hide there for the rest of the weekend.
But I can’t leave. Laura is still out there, living it up, and I have to stay and make sure my sister doesn’t get on the wrong train home, the way she did on the Fourth of July, the last time she had more than two drinks. I may be terrible at flirting, partying, dancing, or doing anything else remotely cool, but I’m a good sister.
“A damned good sister,” I grumble as I slide onto a stool at the end of the bar. “You’re going to owe me for this one, La. Big time.”
I order a glass of white wine—happy to pay for a drink as long as it means I can hide out here in the near darkness of the ultra-modern bar, away from Justin and his super chic friends and his perfectly put together party.
I didn’t belong there.
Even in these trendy new clothes that Laura insisted are sexy, fashionable, and worth the four hundred dollars I shelled out to purchase them, I’d felt like a lump of mashed potatoes in a room full of artisanal organic salad. Yes, mashed potatoes can offer sustenance, and are a cozy, comforting, familiar addition to any holiday meal. But compared to a fresh, crisp, perfectly proportioned salad with ginger zest and an antioxidant-packed dressing, they’re just lumpy, bland, and sad.
I am lumpy. Bland. And sad.
And I really wish I had ignored Laura’s assurances that after a few drinks and a little dancing I wouldn’t feel the chill in the autumn air. Then I would have a jacket with me to put on to cover up my stupid boobs and failure cleavage.
Stupid Boobs and the Failure Cleavage. It’s the world’s worst band name and I am the world’s worst at working what the good Lord gave me and I might as well convert to Catholicism, join a convent, and put myself out of my misery.
I’m about to give up on maintaining a stiff upper lip and sob openly into my wine, when a large hand touches the back of mine, and a deep voice asks, “Rough night?”
I glance over, seeing a vaguely familiar face.
The man on the stool beside me is nearly as large as Justin, with broad shoulders and thick muscles straining the fabric of his white, long-sleeved T-shirt. His short beard is neatly trimmed, but his dark blond hair is shaggy and hanging into his pale eyes. In the dim light of the bar, I can’t tell if they’re blue or green, but they’re intelligent, focused, and…interested?
Maybe?
A little?
God, why can’t I ever tell! What is broken inside of me that I’m incapable of figuring out when a man is flirting with me and when he’s just being friendly?
“A little rough,” I say, forcing a smile. “How about you?”
“Not the best, but things are starting to look up.” He grins, showcasing slightly crooked front teeth. The minor flaw only accentuates the elegant angles of his symmetrical, dimple-blessed face. The man is very good looking. And he’s talking to me, smiling at me, and making significant eye contact.
Empirically, the evidence points toward interest of a more-than-friendly variety, but I’ve been burned too many times to take anything for granted. This could just as easily be another opportunity for me to make a fool of myself as to practice flirting without saying the wrong thing.
When I extend my hand, I keep my tone light and friendly. “Libby.”
“Tanner,” the man says, his big hand enfolding mine. There is no sizzle or spark, but I’m not surprised. I can’t remember the last time anyone but Roger made me tingle.
Since the morning I sprained my ankle in the slippery grass while leading my kids outside during a fire drill, and Asher Elementary’s handsome, smart, sweet as homemade strawberry pie vice principal swooped me into his arms to carry me to the nurse’s office, there has been no one but him. Roger is the object of my complete and utter fascination, and he has no idea I exist. At least, not in that way.