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CHAPTER 1

EMILY

M y first thought as I walk into the nondescript hole in the wall in SoHo is that I am too old for this shit. It’s a Tuesday night. I should be at home, in my pajamas, watching the latest episode of The Real Housewives . Instead, here I am, walking up to a bar tended by some mustachioed hipster wearing a bowtie and suspenders, tugging on the hem of my too tight, too short dress, trying not to look as if I’ve been stood up on a date I didn’t even want to go on in the first place. I swear, I am going to kill my sister; she’s the one who convinced me to try online dating for the first time in my thirty-five years. Whatever happens tonight is all Tess’s fault.

Tossing my purse onto the countertop, I take a seat on one of the stools at the end of the long bar, scanning the dimly lit space—for who, I don’t even know. Some guy named Jake. A thirty-seven-year-old advertising executive who apparently knows how to treat a woman right , if his online dating profile is even legitimate.

Jake DM’d me earlier to tell me he’d meet me at nine p.m.—which was far too late for a Tuesday, in my opinion—and that he’d be wearing a blue suit. But he’s either unacceptably late, or he walked in, took one look at me, and ran. Either way, this is so humiliating.

I pull my phone from my purse to check the time, ready to send Tess a piece of my mind, when I’m interrupted.

“How you doing, darlin’?”

The southern accent sounds far too close to my ear not to be directed at me, so naturally, I turn, glancing over my shoulder, and holy shit. I almost topple right off my stool.

The first thing I notice is his height. He’s got to be six-foot-something. Then, it’s his eyes. A penetrative emerald green gaze that pierces straight through me, framed by enviably thick lashes. High cheek bones, a strong jaw, and a set of lips most women would kill for, all topped off with golden brown hair, short at the back and sides and longer on top, in a state of stylish disarray.

He’s… hot. There’s actually no other word to describe him. I can’t help but look around like perhaps he might be talking to someone behind me because surely he can’t be talking to me. But when I see there’s no one else within earshot, I turn back to Hottie McGottie , clearing my throat, nervously tucking a lock of my chin-length hair behind my ear. “Um… hi?”

As if he can sense my uncertainty, he offers a grin, complete with dimples and a smile so boyish it totally contradicts the smoldering look in his eyes. “Can I get you a drink?”

“I-I, um…” I shake my head in an attempt to try and jolt myself into remembering how to function like a normal human, clearing my throat yet again. “I’m sorry, what?”

A low chuckle reverberates from his chest as he moves even closer, his voice deep and throaty, borderline indecent. “Can I get you a drink?”

I quirk a brow. “D-do you work here?” It really is the first thing that pops into my head, because there’s no way a guy who looks like this would voluntarily offer to get me a drink.

“Uh… no.” He looks around like my question has confused hi m and I mentally kick myself while lifting my chin in the hope that I at least give off the vibe of a grown ass woman in complete control of her life.

“I’ll take a… a cabernet,” I say with a casual shrug, like I get asked to be bought a drink by gorgeous men every Tuesday night.

He flashes me a wink that does things to my insides I’m not willing to admit, raising a big hand in the air for the bartender. And, while he places the order, I take the opportunity to get a better look at him.

The white button-down he’s wearing fits him like a glove, the material pulling taut around the defined muscles in his arms and shoulders. Gray tweed slacks tug in all the right places, showcasing a set of strong thighs and, from where I’m sitting, an ass that looks as if it was sculptured out of marble. And I’m no shoe expert, but the loafers on his feet look expensive and… big. Size fourteen at least.

“One cabernet.”

I startle, looking up to see him grinning at me, a glass of red in his hand.

“I have to be honest,” he says with a shy smile. “I had no idea what I was even asking for.”

I eye the generic bottle of beer in his other hand and don’t doubt that for one second.

“Thanks.” I accept the wine, holding his mischievous gaze as I take a sip, humming in appreciation.

As he takes a pull from his beer, that green gaze trails deliberately up and down my body, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat with a swallow before he says, “I’m Dallas.”

So, the hottie with the Texan accent is named Dallas? I’m dead . Catching my breath, I place my glass down onto the counter so I don’t drop it, my hands suddenly shaky. And clammy. I need to get a goddamn grip.

“I’m Emily. ”

“Nice to meet you, Emily.” With the mouth of his bottle resting against his lips, he flashes me the kind of smile I’m sure has the power to make panties fall to the floor en masse. And don’t even get me started on that southern drawl.

“So, Emily?” He leans forward, so close I’m lost within the scent of his cologne; it’s spicy and chocolatey and something else that makes my mouth water. “What brings you here tonight?”

Oh, crap. It’s at that moment, while openly swooning like a lovesick teenager, that I remember exactly why I’m here. I’m here because my meddling little sister thinks I need to get back on the proverbial horse and start dating again. I only agreed to this so I could get her off my back. In my opinion, men fucking suck; I’d rather date myself.

“Well, actually,” I begin, shifting awkwardly in my seat, “I’m waiting for someone. A date.” Of course, I don’t add that this is my first date in almost eleven years. No one needs to know that.

One of Dallas’s eyebrows arches, and I see him bite back a smirk. “A date, huh?”

“Yeah…” I glance at the time on my phone again. “But he’s thirty-eight minutes late.”

Dallas scoffs. “Must be a real winner to keep a girl like you waiting.”

I don’t miss the sarcasm in his tone. Or the compliment.

“What brings you here tonight?” I ask, choosing to switch the focus from myself and the real possibility that my date is no show.

Dallas meets my eyes, the ghost of a curious smile tugging at his lips before he finally says, “Uh, actually, I was celebrating with some buddies, but they just left.”

I don’t know what he’s celebrating. He looks like he works in finance, so I assume a new account or something. It’s none of my business, so instead of prying, I hold my glass up in toast. “Well, congratulations.”

The look in his eyes is intense as he clinks his glass with mine, and I feel my cheeks flush. I don’t know what is happening; it could very well just be a few sips of wine on an empty stomach, but it feels as if a swarm of butterflies has been let loose in my belly. I feel giddy. Something I haven’t felt in a long time.

Dallas opens his mouth to say something, but his words are cut short, the carefree smile on his face disappearing the second I feel a hand on my shoulder. He snaps his mouth shut and turns back to stare straight ahead.

“Emily?”

I spin around, surprised to find Jake, the handsome advertising executive, standing right there. Dressed in a pale blue suit that might be a little too snug, sandy blond hair that is slicked back, and blue eyes that do a quick yet blatant assessment of me. He’s good looking, in that thirty-something-year-old-frat-boy kind of way.

“Jake?”

“The one and only,” he says with a smug smile.

Behind me, I’m sure I hear a scoff, but I ignore it.

I raise a hand in greeting, expecting Jake to shake it, but much to my surprise, he moves in close, kissing me on each of my cheeks before I even have a chance to decline his advance.

He smells a little predictably of a Gucci cologne, and I don’t miss the flash of a shiny gold Rolex on his wrist when he holds up a hand to grab the attention of the bartender.

I glance sideways, finding Dallas still right there, so close yet staring at the shelves of liquor bottles lined up behind the bar. I meet his eyes in the mirrored wall behind the bottles, and he flashes me another wink, one that makes my heart flutter against my ribs.

With a confident and slightly arrogant disposition, Jake orders himself a top-shelf whiskey and indicates my glass for a refill before taking the stool beside me, sitting impossibly close.

“God! Your photo doesn’t do you justice,” Jake says with a salacious once over, eyes trailing me from head to toe. “You’re gorgeous.”

Now, it’s not that I’m averse to being complimented by a man. Sure, I’m an independent woman. Who doesn’t appreciate being told they’re gorgeous once in a while? But I’d been expecting some form of an apology for his being over half an hour late. The way in which his eyes linger slightly longer than necessary on the short hem of my dress, I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t bother me that the first thing Jake offers in lieu of an apology is the fact that I’m surprisingly better looking than he’d anticipated. It’s either a giant red flag or nerves. I can’t quite tell, but I decide to give him the benefit of the doubt.

“So...” I begin the inevitable small talk. “You work in advertising?”

“Harris McKenzie. I’m McKenzie,” he confirms with a boastful grin. “Do you remember that commercial with the lingerie models wearing nothing but diamond bikinis while playing football in the middle of Times Square?” he asks. “It played during the Super Bowl.”

I shake my head. “I’m not really into sports.”

He guffaws, like he can’t possibly believe what I’ve just told him, and I smile, offering a nonchalant shrug.

“Well, that was my commercial. I directed the entire thing myself,” he clarifies, seemingly offended by my lack of enthusiasm. “It might even win an ADDY…”

Before I can feign interest by pretending to know what an ADDY is, we’re interrupted by the bartender as he places our drinks onto the countertop. Jake stands, taking both glasses, and I look up at him, confused, wondering if he’s had enough of me already and he’s taking my wine as consolation.

“Let’s move to a table.” He points to one of the empty booths by the front window.

Reluctantly, I stand, grabbing my purse, catching Dallas’s dubious side-eye.

“It was… nice to meet you,” I say quietly. “Thanks for the drink.”

He tips his chin in return, holding his beer in the air in cheers, but doesn’t say anything, and I don’t miss the disappointment that stirs in my chest as I turn away from him, following Jake.

I take a seat on the plush velvet banquette, expecting Jake to sit across the table, but he slides in right beside me, his body pressed up against mine.

“You’re a lawyer, right?” Jake asks, taking a sip of his whiskey.

I quirk a brow. Is he serious? It’s only then that I realize he probably has me confused with a plethora of online dating contenders in his inbox.

“No…?”

He seems to ponder my response, closing his eyes briefly before chuckling once under his breath. “Oh, yeah, sorry. Wrong one.”

I cast a longing, sideways glance at where Dallas remains seated at the bar. I almost wish Jake had stood me up. I have a feeling a guy like Dallas would be much better company.

“I’m not normally into blondes, but you’re beautiful.”

Surprised by his words, I turn back to Jake as he places a hand on my thigh, his pinkie almost indecently grazing the skin beneath the hem of my dress.

I kind of want to slap him. Throw my wine in his face and walk away. Cocky, presumptuous asshole. But before I can say or do anything, something shudders loudly against the tabletop, and I look down to see that the cell phone sitting next to Jake’s drink is vibrating. He checks the caller ID and I expect him to reject the call—because that’s what most people would do when they’re on a date. So, when he grins and proceeds to answer the call, my jaw actually drops.

“Hey, bro!” he exclaims, finishing what’s left of his whiskey before holding the empty glass in the air and obnoxiously shaking it to rattle the ice in an attempt to get the bartender’s attention. “Yeah! That was fucking epic, bro. ”

With narrowed eyes, I scowl at the man beside me, taken aback by his audacity. Unsurprisingly, he’s oblivious to me. And, for the seven minutes he’s busy talking to his bro on the phone, I’m otherwise non-existent.

For the record, my sister is a dead woman.

Forty minutes later, I’m not sure how I’ve survived this so-called date, but I find myself awkwardly standing outside the bar, next to Jake, shivering against the cold night air as it whips against my wine-heated cheeks. Unfortunately for me, Jake uses this to his advantage, stepping closer and wrapping his arms around me as if he has a chivalrous bone in his body. I stiffen involuntarily.

A car rolls to a stop at the curb, honking its horn, and I look at it at the same time as Jake says, “That’s my Uber.”

I tentatively meet his eyes.

“You ready to get out of here?” he asks, clamping his bottom lip between his teeth.

“I’m… nowhere near Tribeca,” I say, remembering he told that me he lives in Tribeca at least six times during our forced conversation.

“That’s okay.” Chuckling, he adds, “I don’t mind taking the scenic route…” He waggles his eyebrows suggestively, and I’m suddenly very conscious of how close our mouths are. When his gaze dips to my lips, I can’t help but cringe. Oh, God. He’s going to kiss me. I squeeze my eyes shut, leaning as far away from him as I can without falling to the pavement.

“Excuse me, ma’am?”

With a relieved exhale, I turn to see the bartender standing in the open doorway to the bar, confused to find him looking at me. Apparently, I’m ma’am.

My brows knit together. “Um… yes?”

His smiles behind his perfectly waxed mustache. “There’s a phone call for you inside. ”

“A… a phone call?” I almost laugh. Who the hell is calling me at a bar I’ve never been to in my life.

The man continues. “Yes, your nanny. She said the children are being unruly and won’t go to bed.”

What the—it’s then my gaze flits to the window, and inside, I see Dallas still perched at the bar, looking at me from over his shoulder with a knowing grin, and suddenly it all makes sense.

Swallowing hard, I turn to Jake with a rueful smile. “Sorry, I should go take that. My cell must’ve died.”

Jake balks, not even attempting to school his disgust. “You have kids ?”

“Yeah.” I beam, probably completely over the top, but desperate times and all that shit. “Three under five. All girls!”

I don’t know if I’m imagining it, but I’m almost certain I see the precise moment all the blood drains from poor Jake’s face. I have to fight to contain my own laughter.

“Oh… okay. Um… well—” He pauses, scratching the back of his head. “I guess I should just—” He thumbs the Uber still idling at the curb.

“When can I see you again?” I try to sound so hopeful, borderline frantic, fluttering my lashes for effect.

“Oh, uh…” He glances at that shiny Rolex on his wrist before looking up to the night sky as if in serious deliberation. “I’ll… um… I’ll call you.”

“Okay!” I grin like a moron, knowing full well he doesn’t have my number.

With a chaste kiss to my cheek and a small wave, Jake turns and practically dives into the waiting car. I watch from the sidewalk, waving like an imbecile as the red tail lights disappear down the cobblestone street.

Once I know he’s gone for good, I allow myself to release the breath I’ve been holding, my shoulders sagging with relief. That was a close one.

Taking my phone from my purse, I scroll to the online dating app and waste no time blocking Jake the fuckboy, because like hell am I going to risk matching with him again.

When I turn around, instead of the bartender, Dallas is standing there, arms folded across his chest as he grins at me. “Sorry… it looked like you needed saving.”

I approach him, offering a knowing smirk. “A phone call from my nanny? Really?”

“I can’t believe he fell for it.” He snorts. “What a dumb shit.”

I laugh, tucking my hair behind my ear and glancing down at the pavement as an awkward silence falls between us. Lifting my chin again, I meet his penetrative eyes. “Well, I guess I should probably go…” I shrug, looking out at the empty street.

“Why? Gotta get home to kids?”

I offer him a wry smile. “No.”

“How about one more drink?” He nods back inside. “On behalf of all men, let me make it up to you for having to deal with that d-bag.”

I’m not sure what it is about this guy. Maybe it’s his dimpled grin, or the mischievous look in his eye, or the fact that I’ve consumed three glasses of wine without eating dinner. Or that it’s been so long since I’ve felt this tug in my belly that I’ve spent the last few years starting to believe I was physically broken. Whatever it is, I don’t think I could say no, even if I wanted to. So, I don’t say no. I walk back inside, purposely brushing past him on my way through the door, and I don’t miss the heat in our touch or the look in his eyes that tells me he felt it too.

Death. Self-inflicted death. Death by hangover. That’s what I imagine might be inscribed in my tombstone while I lie here dying. My mouth tastes like ass. My head throbs as if my brain is trying to break free of its confines, like my skull is about to shatter under the pressure at any minute.

Curling into a ball of self-loathing, I stifle a groan. What the hell did I do last night to make me feel like this ? This is a hangover of unspeakable proportions. Sure, talking about tombstones is dramatic, but with the pain I’m in, I might very well die.

I roll onto my back as slowly as I can to stop my head from spinning. Covering my face with a trembling hand, I close my eyes tight as I try to make sense of the night before.

My stomach knots, and I know I should get up before I’m sick all over myself and my bed, but I can’t find it in me to move. So, I remain as still as I can, peeling one sticky eyelid open and hissing like a vampire at the burn from the morning light streaming in through the wall of windows across from my bed.

Wait a second.

My body stiffens. I suddenly can’t move. Not because of my hangover but because I’m frozen, paralyzed with fear because… I don’t have a wall of windows across from my bed.

Both eyes fly open, bleary gaze focusing enough to make out a picture-perfect image of the East River, the Manhattan skyline across the water. Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit.

Holding my breath, I try not to move as I carefully scan the space around me, brows knitting together at the collection of cowboy hats artfully displayed on the exposed brick wall. What the fuck?

Sitting bolt upright, my heart slams against my chest, all traces of my murderous hangover engulfed by the overwhelming panic that’s consumed me.

Where the hell am I?

What the hell did I do last night?

I look down at myself, gasping.

And why the hell am I wearing a—is this a hockey jersey?

Instinctively, I clutch at my breasts beneath the silky material, a million panicked thoughts playing through my head, which is precisely when I notice a body lying beside me.

Oh… my… God.

Holding my breath, I carefully pull back the comforter, revealing the naked back of a man. Smooth, tan skin pulled taut over lean muscles, a white sheet strategically covering the bare minimum, a generous portion of very firm ass cheek on display. I’m forced to slap a hand over my mouth when the wine from last night threatens to make an undignified return.

I zero in on his face smushed against the pillow wrapped in his arms. A light smattering of stubble shadows a strong jaw, pink lips pouted in sleep, an untamed mop of golden-brown hair sticking up in every which way. Sex hair.

Suddenly it all comes back to me. Oh, God.

The guy. Dallas.

My traitorous subconscious cheers. Well done, you . And, yes, granted, he’s attractive, I’m not denying that. But no, not well done me. This is so far from well done me , I don’t even know where to start. I went to a bar to meet someone, and I ended up leaving the bar with someone else. A stranger . A hot stranger, but a stranger no less. Emily Cole, you thirty-five-year-old hussy .

For at least three minutes I just sit, staring at the body next to me. Am I dreaming? Is this some kind of hallucination from too many mid-week wines?

A million questions race through my mind as I try to piece together last night, but all I manage to conjure up are a few pixelated flashbacks. I remember being in the bar. Then in a cab. Oh, God! I’m tormented by a vision of me grinding myself against his strong, meaty thigh, his tongue shoved half-way down my throat.

Looking out at the river glittering beneath the light of the morning sun, guilt, shame, fear, and everything in between rack through me. I had sex last night. With a random. My first ever one-night stand, at thirty-five. I want to die.

I have no idea where I am. Brooklyn, obviously. All I know is that I have to get the hell out of here with what’s left of my dignity before he wakes up, because I am in no state to be dealing with this awkward morning-after bullshit.

Reaching for my purse on the nightstand, I pull out my phone. But of course, it’s dead. Because apparently my life is suddenly nothing more than a never-ending series of bullshit misfortune.

Holding my breath, I move one limb at a time from the bed like some Cirque Du Soleil contortionist, careful not to make too much sudden mattress movement. Then I skulk across the room wearing a hockey jersey three sizes too big and my control-top thong.

Quicker than I’ve ever changed clothes in my life, I discard the jersey and snag my dress, shimmying it up over my hips. Searching for my heels, I find one strewn in the corner, the other poking out from underneath the chaise.

I eye the bedroom door skeptically. Does he live alone? Are there others? The last thing I need right now is to come face-to-face with some unsuspecting roommate.

With my purse and shoes secured firmly in my grip, I take one last look around to check I haven’t left anything behind. If I have, too bad. It’s his now. A token to remember me by. Or not. Preferably not. Last night needn’t be remembered. Or spoken of ever again.

With one final glance at the man sleeping peacefully, looking far more attractive than one should look while passed out after a night of drunken debauchery, I slip quietly out of the bedroom, my heart racing the whole time.

Thankfully, the apartment is silent and roommate free. And holy shit. This place is something else. An open plan converted loft, all polished concrete, exposed pipes and wooden beams, overlooking a view of the Brooklyn Bridge, to the left, and the Manhattan Bridge right there through huge arched windows.

Grabbing my coat from the back of a brown leather sectional, I pad quietly to the door, exiting to a generic hallway. Releasing the breath I’d been holding, I practically run for the elevator, frantically pressing the call button like I’m being chased by Michael Myers himself.

By the time I make it outside, I’m immediately hit by an icy chill I’m definitely not dressed for. I quickly shrug on my coat as I consider my options. Surely there’s a train station nearby or a cab I can flag down. Hell, I will walk of shame my ass across the Brooklyn Bridge wearing yesterday’s panties and a terrible case of morning-after regrets if have to. I don’t care. I just need to get the hell out of here. Far away from the memory of last night, so I can get straight down to pretending like it never happened.