“Not denying that.”
She smirks and stirs the ice cubes in her drink with the straw.
“Cheers to being single.” I raise my glass to hers, and Aubree clinks her near-empty cocktail to mine. “Should we order another round?”
“God, yes. Immediately.”
Her timing is perfect, because our cocktail waitress has seemingly appeared out of nowhere, and we quickly place an order for another round of drinks.
It’s over our third cocktail that Aubree blurts, “So, who here is your type?” She sweeps her arm around the bar. “I’ll help you pick someone out.”
My sip of tequila goes down the wrong pipe, and I cough to clear my throat.
Is that what Aubree plans on doing tonight? Picking out someone tall, dark, and temporary to provide some stress relief? More importantly, why does the idea of that bother the hell out of me?
“I don’t have a type,” I finally manage to say, my throat tight.
Aubree scoffs. “Everyone has a type.”
“Are we seriously doing this?” My tone hints at annoyance, but in truth, I’m anything but. Sitting here talking and laughing with her is the most fun I’ve had tonight. To be honest, it’s the most fun I’ve had in a long time.
“What about her?” Ignoring my question, she nods toward a blonde swaying her hips on the edge of the dance floor. She’s dressed in a barely there halter top and a tiny black leather skirt.
Frowning, I shake my head. “No.”
Aubree turns and glares at me. “What’s wrong with her?”
It’s strange how expressive she is. I study her for longer than I should, unable to tear my gaze away. But rather than answer her question, I plead the fifth with a shrug and take another long gulp to drain the rest of my glass.
“So, are you going to tell me your type, or what?” Her eyes fix on mine and stay there for what feels like too long.
I don’t hate it.
“Fine. I prefer brunettes.”
She smiles triumphantly. “There. Was that so hard?”
Trust me, I’m halfway there, sweetheart.
Quizzing me while she sips her beverage, Aubree gets me to admit that I like petite brunettes who can hold a conversation and are feisty.
She quirks one eyebrow in my direction, and I’m suddenly certain that she’s just realized I’m describing her. Thankfully, she doesn’t call me on it. She just continues tapping her finger against her chin, scanning the bar for prospects like an athletic scout does at a training camp.
“There’s got to be more than that,” she says, challenging me. “Breast man? A nice heinie? What’s your thing?”
“My thing?” I can’t hide the humor in my voice. “First off, don’t use the word heinie ever again.”
“But—” she says.
God, I love that she’s about to vehemently defend even this.
I hold up one hand, stopping her. “Promise me. Never again.”
Aubree makes a low sound of agreement, and I feel a sudden ache in my balls. “Just answer the question, lover boy.”
“Tits are nice,” I say.
Aubree laughs, the sound deep and throaty, and any regrets I had about muttering that inarticulate phrase vanish. I’d do it all again just for a shot at hearing that laugh.
“But a nice curvy ass is pretty great too. I’m a guy, so I wouldn’t deny either.”
“Truer words,” she says with a chuckle.
I’m about to turn the question around on her, ask about her type, but the words stick in my throat. I don’t want to hear her describe any man here who isn’t me. My ego isn’t secure enough for that tonight. Sad but true.
Aubree’s got perfect tits and a nice curvy heinie—God, that word really is atrocious—and I can’t not make a play for her. At this point, what do I have to lose?
“You want to get out of here?” I ask, adjusting my watch, feigning a casual posture.
Her lips twitch with a smile. “And go where?”
I shrug, trying to play it cool, but my heart is hammering. “Anywhere. Someplace we can talk.”
She considers this, weighing my offer as those expressive amber eyes flash on mine again. “Talking is good.”
So is kissing.
“Sure,” she says at last.
I settle our tab and rise to my feet, grateful that the night is taking an unexpected turn.
2
* * *
Mistakes Were Made
Aubree
The rays of sunlight shining through the hotel curtains feel like a flashlight shining directly in my eyeballs. No, not a flashlight. Laser beams. A hundred laser beams, all pointed directly into my corneas.
Hell hath no fury like a hangover when you’re thirty years old.
With an exhausted groan, I roll to the edge of the bed, feeling around the side table for my phone, which kindly informs me that it’s almost eleven in the morning. Jeez. If it were any other Saturday, I’d already be home from yoga and hopping in the shower by now.
But I’m not at home in Seattle, I’m in Las Vegas, and at the moment, just the thought of yoga makes my stomach turn. The only downward dog I’ll be doing today will be directly over the toilet. That is, if I can force myself out of bed.
Last night, I was throwing back vodka sodas like I was still twenty-one, back when hangovers were a mythical thing that only happened to real adults who just couldn’t keep up.
Let the record show that I, Aubree Derrick, can’t keep up. My head is pounding, and there’s a churning in my stomach that I’m not even sure throwing up would fix. So, yeah, those real adults? I guess I’m officially one of them.
Since I’m not particularly excited about the idea of leaving this bed, I open my texts, looking for clues as to what exactly went down last night. By some miracle, I find no evidence of drunk texting any exes. Or if I did, my drunk self had the wherewithal to delete the evidence so Sober Me didn’t have to be embarrassed. Thank you, Drunk Self, for being a true friend.
But I’m not in the clear yet. I still need to check my camera roll.
I tap the icon with my thumb, holding my breath as I swipe through photos of me and the girls, Owen and Becca posing at dinner, and a goofy selfie Elise must have snapped when I wasn’t paying attention. I’ll be sure to save that as ammo for a future birthday post for her. But that’s it.
A slow, relieved breath leaves my lungs. Thank the good Lord above, because other than the hangover from hell, I actually got away scot-free.
Until I hear the rustling of sheets coming from the other side of the bed.
Oh no. I spoke too soon.
Slowly sucking in a deep breath, I count down from ten, promising myself that by the time I reach one, I’ll have worked up enough courage to face whoever I brought back to my hotel room last night.
Three.
Two.
Two and a half.
Two and a quarter.
One.
At first, I don’t recognize the mess of dark hair and tanned skin lying next to me. My bedmate is facing away from me, giving me a delicious view of his muscular back. Faint red lines run down the sculpted muscles between his shoulders, definitely the work of my fingernails.
Wait a second. I know that back. It’s one I’m used to seeing draped in a jersey.