“Get it, girl. Who is he, give me the deets.”
A few minutes later, I hang up with Cassie. Her bright outlook for my date tonight has almost banished all thoughts of him. No use dwelling on the past. You got into this mess, I tell myself, by falling in love with the wrong man—you can get out of it by falling for a right man.
After Picky Eater, Altitude became my dating spot. My dates would suggest other places, and I’d counter with Altitude. It was always my final offer, my deal breaker. There were many reasons why I liked this spot. One, the food was just my style. Two, if anything bad happened, help was just a finger wave away. I had a system. A look at a waitress, a signal for a specific drink, and suddenly the date would be done in five minutes. And three, I really like the place.
Even with so many ridiculous dates, the club never failed to feel like a second home. If there was one thing I learned in law school it was that there’s nothing to boost your confidence like playing on your home turf.
I forgo the bar tonight, settling instead on a booth. One of the waitresses, Katie, brings me a drink, and I give her our signal. The date needs to be over. Actually, it needed to be over before it even officially began, but I wanted to stick it out and prove to myself that I was being a good sport.
For the record, Cash’s advice sucks. Speaking of the devil, my eyes drift to the bar where he’s busy putting on a show for the crowd. His blond hair is unruly, and every time he smiles his dimples pop out. It’s easy to understand why women all but remove their panties the minute they see him. He’s more lithe than Ryder and Parker who each are packed with hard muscle. Cash is…flexible, like a swimmer. The muscles that wrap his body are meant to move and twist. Tonight, he’s in his usual uniform: a white V-neck T-shirt and jeans. The end of a tattoo licks his arm. What I wouldn’t give to peel back that shirt and discover what’s beneath —I stop myself mid thought. This is Cash I’m thinking about.
Cash slides a drink over to a woman and makes her laugh. See, I tell myself. You’re not the only one he comforts in times of need.
That thought knocks me out of it. Where did that even come from? I am on a date—not here to scope out my friend.
I met my date at a Harvard Law school mixer. There he’d been a straight-laced lawyer. Suit. Tie. Respectable day job at a good firm. Silly of me to believe that fa?ade. By night, he dresses in shiny black pleather and a ripped t-shirt. I half expect him to let his mullet fall out. I’ve seen this style done well, but this is a mess and a half on Mixer Man—and he prefers himself this way.
“This is a great bar,” he says, his eyes darting around the room appreciatively. “You think they’re hiring DJs?”
“I don’t know. Why?” That last question is more to myself than for him. Why am I doing this? What sort of hell have I condemned myself to? Cash had better have a full bottle of whiskey waiting for me when this is done.
“Well, I guess, since we’re dating—to be honest, this lawyer stuff isn’t for me. My parents wanted me to go to law school. So I went, got a job, checked all the boxes—and now I’m looking to make a clean exit. Law was never my thing. But you? Trust me, they’ll love you.”
He leans in and goes for the kiss. I’ve been avoiding kisses for the past two months; I could practically go pro as a kiss avoider. I turn my head to catch a waitress’s attention, and to make sure he doesn’t even graze my cheek, I block him with my hand.
“It’s been lovely, but I think we’re done here.” I throw my bag over my shoulder and make to stand. But he doesn’t seem to get the hint.
“So how about Saturday, then? Would you come out to my show?”
“Sorry, I’m stuck in all weekend—life of a lawyer.” I shrug and down the rest of my drink. We are officially over.
Mixer Man shakes his head. “You need a new profession. You’re too sexy for the law.”
And I leave. Just walk away. Yes, because a woman can’t be pretty and also have a brain. How foolish of me.
“I’ll call you,” he calls after me. I can’t wait to hit the ignore button.
I sit at the end of the bar, which I’ve come to think of as my own personal front porch.
Cash comes over, and I expect my usual: a tumbler and a healthy pour of whiskey. Instead he sets down a shot glass, a bowl of limes, and a shaker full of salt.
“I’d prefer whiskey or maybe a glass of red wine,” I say, realizing too late that there’s far more venom in my voice than necessary. “Please,” I add.
“Try again,” Cash says.
“Pretty please with sugar on top?”
“As long as I can lick the sugar off.”
“Give it to me.”
“Now that’s what I’m talking about,” Cash says with a smile, his dimples popping out again. “However, I’m going to switch it up for you. Whiskey is what you do after every date, and it’s time to mess up the routine. Shots. If you’re nice, I’ll even let you do body shots.”