I’ll make it the perfect outfit for a solo night on the town with these babies. I grab a pair of fuchsia cowboy boots from the closet, tug them on in a flurry.
Yup. This is me now.
My dress, my boots, my style. From a shelf, I grab a purple wristlet that Emerson gave me for my birthday. Go Ahead, Underestimate Me adorns one side in a curlicue font.
Indeed, world.
Underestimate me.
I am not staying in.
I am not curling up and downing a carton of Häagen-Dazs.
I am taking myself out in my goddamn dress.
Stuffing my phone into my colorful clutch, I get the hell out of my apartment, hitting the sidewalk on a Saturday night.
I wander through Russian Hill, weaving unnoticed through crowds. Across the street, a woman dressed as a leprechaun skips down the block. As I round the corner, a man in a porkpie hat rides a unicycle. No one gives the woman in the wedding dress a second look as she wanders the city solo.
San Francisco is awesome and wonderful, and this is why I loved and missed this city when I was in Los Angeles building my business.
I walk, and I walk, and I walk into the night until I see a sign for Pinup Lanes advertising a Saturday night special on tequila and bowling.
I’ll take what’s behind door number one, thank you very much.
I head inside. It’s so old school, and this is what I need right now.
Brimming with orange Formica, and fifties tunes, this place is nothing at all like the Legion of Honor, my mural artist almost-husband, or the ceremony I didn’t have.
I head to the bar, order a shot, and knock it back.
It burns all the way down.
I order one more, and when the bartender sets it down, I notice footsteps growing louder on the linoleum behind me.
I turn my head. Glance over my shoulder.
Is that . . .?
No way.
Tonight, after all these years, my eyes land on the guy who got away.
4
Harlan
Holy smokes.
She is a sight.
As sexy as Katie was more than seven years ago, she’s somehow even more stunning today. Her hair is all done up and clipped back, with lush, dark blonde strands curling over her shoulders. Her skin shimmers. Her high cheekbones slant in fantastic contrast to her pert, freckled nose.
The last seven years have been very good to her.
And yet, everything about the woman is incongruous. It’s not a stretch to imagine there’s something wildly wrong tonight. A woman doesn’t wear a wedding dress solo to a bowling alley bar on a Saturday night in July without a reason. But I don’t want to make any assumptions. Hell, her groom might be in the little boys’ room, taking care of business.
Or waxing a big old bowling ball.
Or playing a speed sesh of Pac-Man in the video game lounge.
But a quick glance around tells me she’s not here with the mister after saying I do. The place is mostly empty with just a few groups of old dudes in bowling shirts left of the crowd, and no one who looks like he got hitched today. So I’m thinking Katie and her man didn’t rush off to Pinup Lanes for an ironic game of bowling to celebrate their nuptials.
Just to be safe, though, I go in nice and easy. I’d like to avoid hitting on another man’s bride.
What am I saying? I’m not going to hit on her, period. I’m merely saying hello to an old flame.
I close the distance, leaning a hip against the bar. “Hello, blast from the past. And happy . . . Saturday night?” I arch a brow, give a crooked smile, hoping maybe that’s the start of what she needs. A friendly face. Someone to lighten the mood.
Katie turns to me in slow motion, taking her sweet time. Her blue eyes are edged with sadness and fury. But when they lock on mine, recognition sparks, and a wide range of emotions dances across her face.
Surprise. Embarrassment. And maybe a touch of excitement?
“Or we can be more precise and call it Happy Just-Escaped-Marriage-To-A-Cheater day,” she deadpans.
Whoa.
Someone does not mince words.
Who the hell would do that to her?
I blow out a long stream of air and scrub a hand over my jaw. “They ought to have cards for that,” I say, trying to match her mood. “Say goodbye to the double-crossing, duplicitous dick.”
She lifts her shot glass, a tiny laugh escaping her lips. “Yes. And the inside could say Congratulations to the jilted bride,” she says, hurt leaking into her tone now.
My heart screams for her. “I hate that this happened to you, but I’m glad you got out in the nick of time.” I park myself on a stool and do the one useful thing I can—I lift two fingers at the bartender. “I’ll take a shot too.”
“Coming right up,” he says.
I turn to Katie. “I cannot let you drink alone. Not on your wedding night. It’s just not right. I refuse to do it. So you have a just escaped marriage to the traitor drinking buddy.”
She pats the bar, heaving a sigh. “Then drink up, partner.”
The bartender slides over a tequila for me. “Here you go, sir.”
I slap down some bills. “And I’ll take care of her bar tab tonight,” I say.
Katie shakes her head. “I’ve got it.”
I scoff, patting my chest. “Gentleman here. It’s the least I can do on your Great Escape Day.”
She holds up her hand in surrender. “I have no argument left in me. Thank you.”
“You are most welcome. And by the way, on behalf of all men everywhere, I’d like to apologize for whatever that dickhead of a guy did. He is clearly an asshat of the highest order, and he does not deserve you. That’s just a fact.”
She lifts her glass in agreement, then downs the shot. “He is, but that’s not the worst of it, Harlan.”
“Oh, you remember my name?” I tease before I knock back my drink too.
She narrows her eyes, shoots me a c’mon look. “Did you think I wouldn’t?”
“I’m just happy you did . . . Katie.” It comes out flirtier than I expected. But maybe flirting is what she needs tonight?
Her blue eyes widen. “Are you trying to impress me by remembering mine?”
“Did that impress you? If so, check out the other details I remember.” I count off on my fingers. “You’re from Texas, you love fashion and flirting, and I sorely missed the chance for a second date with you.”
I put that last nugget out there because . . . why the hell not? Maybe tonight is the perfect time to let the woman know she was wanted something fierce.
Katie shoots me a skeptical glance. “Now you’re just blowing smoke up my skirt.”
“I assure you, no smoke is being blown. But I do like your skirt.” I curl my fingers to beckon the rest of the story from her. “Go on. You were about to tell me what is the worst part of today. Also, if you need to punch anyone or anything, my chest is a brick wall.” I pat my pecs, inviting her to toss her fist my way. “Feel free to take it out on me.”
Another small laugh falls from her lips, and I feel like I’m winning at something—at making a woman who’s had a terrible day feel a tiny bit better.
Katie breathes deep, yoga-style, like she’s inhaling a namaste to form the next words: “I walked in on the groom kissing the mother of the bride.”