“So, here I am, sitting in the fanciest bar—or, I guess, nightclub—wearing a bathrobe and sipping bitter iced tea from a wine glass! Why a wine glass, you ask? Because I specifically requested it from your colleague over there, that bartender. You know, just to blend in a little…” (At this, the bartender lets out a nervous hiccup, which, honestly, I can’t blame him for.) “And he, the sweetheart, agreed! What’s that? How did I get past secu… secu… security? I slipped the guy twenty bucks!” I burst into laughter, spilling the murky liquid from my glass onto my cozy fleece robe. “Just kidding! The guard’s not to blame. He was tying his combat boots when I sneaked by.”
The bartender stares at me like he’s worried I might start barking or pull some other crazy stunt. And honestly, from a woman who shows up at a bar—sorry, nightclub—with wet hair and a pink fleece bathrobe, what else would you expect?
“No, I don’t need any help!” I snap back at the bartender, my tone a bit sharper now.
“And no, I’m not feeling bad! I’m great! I’ve never felt better in my entire life!”
After this truly Shakespearean monologue, the bartender finally leaves me and my wine glass and robe in peace, turning his attention to a guy who’s just sat down nearby.
Meanwhile, I keep repeating to myself like a mantra, “Don’t feel sorry for yourself! Whatever you do, don’t feel sorry for yourself!” That’s the most important thing right now. Because the only thing worse than a woman in a pink fleece bathrobe at a bar is a woman in a pink fleece bathrobe at a bar who’s wallowing in self-pity. And I’m not wallowing. I’m great! Starting today, I’m free as a bird!
“Feeling down, sweetheart?” a shady-looking guy with a shaved head nudges me with his elbow. (He could almost pass for a certain American actor if he didn’t look so much like a thug.)
“We can cheer you up!” adds what I assume is his buddy, plopping down on the stool on my other side.
“I’m not down!” I reply sharply, as clearly as I can manage after two glasses of that vile stuff—some drink with a name that sounds like cat food. The tea? That’s just dessert.
“Come on, now! Cool outfit, by the way. We’re into it,” the bald guy persists.
“Outfit?” I stare at him, baffled. My mood’s so sour that one more word from him, and he’s going to pay for my lousy day. I’m just deciding how—head against the bar or a chair to the skull?
“Yeah, the girls here switch up their looks all the time to keep things fresh. We’re digging yours. We’ll take you for double the rate, split between us!” his friend explains, and it finally clicks what they’re getting at.
“Not a chance in hell!” I snap, downing the last of my bitter drink. Normally, I don’t touch strong stuff—or tea, for that matter—and I definitely don’t hang out at bars. Especially not straight out of the shower, still in my robe…
And just like that, all my forced bravado evaporates in an instant. Because, through my hazy vision, I accidentally lock eyes with… him.
A stern, piercing gaze from beneath thick, defined brows… Dark eyes that seem to burn right through me… Sharp cheekbones and a rugged, well-groomed stubble… A deep V-neck polo shirt revealing a strong neck, the fabric straining over broad shoulders and muscular arms… If I had to paint the hero of my next masterpiece, I’d paint him. But I don’t need to anymore. I’ve got no paintings, no studio, no new ideas… Maybe someday, later. For now, these two clowns—who clearly have no idea who they’ve sat next to—rudely snap me back to reality.
Never, ever, ever mess with a woman in a fleece bathrobe with wet hair at a bar. Because she couldn’t care less about anything! For her, there are no boundaries, no moral lines! If a woman walks into a place looking like this and isn’t ashamed, heaven help us, who knows what’s going on in her head!
So, when one of them tugs at the sleeve of my favorite robe again, I spin around and hiss through gritted teeth, “Go to hell!”
My opponent clearly wasn’t expecting that. Probably. I don’t care either way, because I’m back to openly staring at the stranger in the black polo.
God, he’s… striking! Especially those full, expressive lips and those eyes with slightly downturned corners.
But… men are jerks. And good-looking men? They’re jerks squared! I’m absolutely certain of that after today!
And while I’m sitting here, my jerk of a fiancé… no, I don’t want to think about him right now!
“Hey, babe, let’s get out of here. We’re into you. We’ll pay,” the bald guy presses, pretending he didn’t hear me tell his friend off.
“Go to hell!” I reply, a bit softer this time, only because swearing isn’t really my thing. Just like sitting in a bar in a bathrobe isn’t!
“Are you out of your mind?” the bald guy suddenly flares up, raising his hand…
I don’t even have time to blink with my bleary eyes before that hand freezes mid-air, gripped by a strong, sculpted hand with long fingers. Oh my God, it belongs to the gorgeous guy in the polo!
“She said no. Didn’t you hear her?” he says in a voice that makes my knees weak...