She gave me a naughty smile. “Four.”
“Damn girl,” I whistled, giving her a once over, though I knew I’d never see any evidence of those waffles on her rail thin body. Though she was blessed with a supermodel’s metabolism, Maya was also kind of obsessed with fitness and ran marathons like they were going out of business. She was always trying to get me to join, but the only kind of exercise I was interested in was the kind that ended with an orgasm.
“You don’t even know, Nicole,” Maya licked her lips. “I don’t think there’s anything better in life than great sex followed by these waffles. They are smothered in dulce de leche, topped with vanilla ice cream.”
“I guess I’ll just have to take your word for it,” I interrupted, not interested in watching her get orgasmic over these waffles. Again. Between the waffles and her juice, she was obsessed. Besides, getting a guy to order room service was definitely not my thing. I didn’t have time to linger after sex and I didn’t want any of the guys I slept with to get the wrong idea. I couldn’t risk them getting attached and I’d had too many close calls lately – men were so sensitive these days.
I glanced back at Mr. Gin-and-Tonic, who was still casting fervent glances in my direction. And not “ooooh baby, the things I would do to you” kind of glances. The “you seem like a nice girl, maybe my mom would like you” kind of glances. Yeah, he was totally a long-term kind of guy and I was not that kind of girl. At all. Not anymore.
“What about you?” Maya glanced around the bar, which was only about one third full. Slim pickings and she had definitely snagged the best option. Mr. Junior Agent was watching her with a gleam in his eye. A very specific kind of gleam. One that promised sex. And waffles. And never calling again. “Anyone catch your eye?”
“Not tonight.” I turned my back on Mr. Gin-and-Tonic. Definitely relationship material. Definitely not for me.
“Really?” Maya frowned. “No one?”
“They all scream commitment,” I told her. “I’m on a bad luck streak,” I crossed my arms. “The last two guys practically begged me for my number afterwards.”
She grimaced. “Ugh. Let’s hope my agent doesn’t want to talk about his feelings.”
“What is with guys these days?” I asked. “It seems like half of them think that when I say ‘one night stand’ I really mean ‘but secretly, I want to be your girlfriend’.”
“And they accuse our gender of being the clingy one.” Maya rolled her eyes. “Remember when that guy kept sending flowers to the bar?”
“Peony Pete!” I laughed. “How could I forget? He did not know how to take no for an answer.”
“I know!” Maya giggled. “I know I’m hot, but come on!”
“I would have sent you roses,” I told her.
“That’s because you’re a classy broad.”
“The classiest!” I readily agreed and then sighed. “Why is a good one night stand so hard to find?”
“You’d think it’d be a piece of cake in Los Angeles,” Maya shrugged. “Guess we’re just looking in the wrong place.”
“Not according to my mom,” I told her. My mom was a tabloid junkie and according to them, all the men in Los Angeles were cheating on their wives. I kept trying to tell her that she couldn’t judge the entire population of a city on the actions of a few philandering celebrities, but she was still deeply concerned for my honor. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that my honor was long gone. That it took off around the first time that she did. But I was doing my best not to bring that up. We were starting over. She was trying. I was trying. Which meant humoring her, a lot. “My mom is convinced I’m surrounded by manwhores.”
“I wish!” Maya exclaimed. “I thought becoming a bartender would guarantee an endless supply of men with commitment issues.”
“Me too,” I shook my head. “I guess we should have specified the kind of commitment issues we were looking for. Namely, the not-interested-in-it kind.”
“Men,” Maya sighed.
“Seriously,” I lifted my hands. “Where’s a good manwhore when you need one?”
Hours later, after Maya went upstairs with her man-of-the-evening, I went home to where my brother was parked in front of the TV, watching the 2013 Doctor Who Christmas Special.
“Hey, buddy,” I ruffled his hair as I passed by to drop my purse off on the kitchen table.
“Twelve,” he pointed at the screen.
“Oh, is this the first time he shows up?” I asked innocently. I was referring to the twelfth incarnation of the Doctor, who was Mikey’s second favorite. Or at least he had been last week. The list changed on a daily basis.
Mikey turned around and let out an enormous sigh. I bit my lip, trying to hide my smile.