On a weeknight.
Certainly not sleeping, even though I had to work the next day. Definitely not open to talking with anyone, or trying to pick up a date.
Surely . . . not paying the least bit of attention to the beautiful bartender with gorgeous hazel eyes and a body built for sin. He’d flash a smile and the women around him melted. He’d chuckle and even I wasn’t immune to the silken way it slid down my spine. And I was singular. I didn’t pay attention to men (and yes, I said that as a filthy, four-letter word).
I existed by myself. For myself.
It was safer that way.
Then . . . he talked to me. Then . . . he flashed that smile my way.
Then he made me want a stranger more than I wanted my careful distance.