Page 2

Why am I even doing this to myself?

I chew on my straw and return to people watching, determined not to let my mind stray to what the clear, bone-dry silence from my date means.

The group of loud women who have been ordering round upon round of espresso martinis have finally stood up to leave. They’re dressed to the nines, and I have no doubt they’ll be moving on to some exclusive bar or club to continue the rest of their night. The two men seated at the table next to them look relieved, clinking their wine glasses together as if to say,“thank God.”

A small gasp breaks through the buzz of the restaurant, and I glance at a couple two tables across from me. The woman has her dainty hand raised to her lips as she smiles at the man—fiancé or husband based on the rock she is sporting—who hands her a small red box. Her grin widens further as she opens the gift and pulls out a Cartier LOVE bracelet.

Bitterness blooms in my chest with a small ache.

The only gifts I’ve ever gotten from boyfriends were a giant teddy bear for Valentine’s Day in eighth grade and a perfume my sophomore year of college that smelled kind of like my nana. Sweet ideas, but nothing that was ever a declaration of love.

Mike hasn’t even gotten me flowers, and I’ve been seeing him for two months.

I flick my attention to the bar, watching the bartender pour some bright green concoction into three coupe glasses before topping them each with a cucumber ribbon. My lips purse as I contemplate once again whether or not I should just order a drink.

They’re pricey here, almost twenty-seven dollars each, and I didn’t really want to drop that much cash unnecessarily. I’d be pissed at myself if I spent that money and Mike didn’t show up.

The thought forms a ball in the back of my throat.

I rip my gaze away from the tempting cocktails I’d been dreaming about all day and land on a man I hadn’t seen before. It would have to be pitch black in here for me not to notice how attractive he is.

Even from this far, I can see the clean cut of his jawline. His hair is a dark mocha color, styled in a classic Ivy League cut with the sides cut a smidge shorter and the top longer. He looks like one of those stereotypical finance men with his crisp suit that hugs his body in all the right places and a glass of what looks to be whiskey. He’s sitting alone, one elbow on the bar as he takes a swig of his drink.

I wonder if he is waiting for someone as well.

Our eyes meet, and my breathing halts for a second too long as I lose myself to his piercing gaze.

My brain catches up, and I duck my head to focus on my sad glass of sparkling water.

Shit.

Shit shit shit.

My cheeks heat, some weird embarrassment working its way through my body. He so caught me checking him out. I’m supposed to be waiting for my date, and instead I’m ogling a tall drink of one hundred percent man.

“I’m so sorry, miss, but I really need this table.”

“Huh?” I startle, blinking up at the server like a deer in headlights.

“You’re welcome to keep waiting. I can move you to the bar if you would like? But I need the table for another reservation.”

The embarrassment I feel now is for an entirely different reason.

I twirl the straw in my glass—which is just an inch of half-melted ice at this point—and let out a sigh. The awkward pity in the server’s eyes does nothing but make me feel more like crap about the fact that I’ve been sitting at this two-top for almost twohours alone, clearly waiting for someone who hasn’t bothered to show.

Honestly, I’m surprised she let me sit here this long. It’s a Friday night, and The Brass Stop is one of the hottest restaurants right now. I’ve been dying to try it, which is why I was so freaking excited for our dinner plans tonight. Dinner plans that don’t seem to be happening…again.

My chest squeezes, but I plaster on a tight smile and try not to let the hurt show.

“Sure, I understand.”

Gathering my coat and purse, I slip off the seat and make the short walk over to the bar. There are only two empty stools available, one nearby, sandwiched between two couples, and one at the corner by the man.

It’s an easy choice.

Silently, I hop onto the farther stool, careful to keep my dress from riding up.

The bartender sidles up to me almost immediately.