Page 12 of What Broke First (The Cheating A$$hole #1)

Sarah adjusted the neckline of her navy blouse in the mirror, her fingers shaking just slightly from adrenaline. She wasn’t chasing a connection. Just a distraction. Something to prove she still had edges that hadn’t been dulled by grief.

Tonight wasn’t about moving on. It was about moving out of her own shadow.

The babysitter waved from the porch as Sarah grabbed her keys and purse, calling behind her.

“Bedtime’s eight-thirty. Emily gets two stories. Tommy will try to con you into four. Don’t let him.”

She walked to her car with purpose. No guilt. No doubt. Just that buzz of mischief that came with knowing Matt still thought of her as the patient saint in yoga pants who packed lunches and kept her heartbreak folded neatly in drawers.

Let him think that.

Her date was named Carter. He was the brother of her coworker’s husband or something equally low-risk. He was tall, decent-looking in a non-threatening way, and laughed like he wasn’t still mourning his hairline. He opened doors, listened more than he talked, and ordered the wine without flexing about his palate.

“This is... not terrible,”

Sarah said, her glass halfway to her lips.

Carter glanced around the dimly lit bistro, then back at her.

“First time here. I figured we could try it together. Shared adventure, right?”

She raised a brow.

“Oh? You don’t bring all your dates here?”

He grinned.

“Honestly? Most of my dates don’t involve restaurants.”

Sarah blinked, then laughed.

“Wow. So why am I the lucky one who gets the wining and dining?”

Carter leaned back in his chair, easy and unashamed.

“Something told me you’d need a little warming up before the wild night.”

She laughed harder than she expected to.

“You’re not wrong. I actually had no idea dating apps were basically just hook-up apps until I was knee-deep in unsolicited shirtless mirror pics.”

“Guilty,”

Carter said, holding up his hands.

“I’ve used them that way.”

“Well, you realize hooking up with me isn’t in your future, right?”

she said, a hint of amusement in her voice.

“Never say never,”

he replied, not smug, just honest. She tilted her head, impressed despite herself.

“I’ve got to admit, I appreciate the transparency.”

“Too many guys try to fake their way into the long game. I don’t see the point. If I want a relationship, I say it. If I just want to have fun, I say that too. No one deserves to be misled.”

Sarah nodded slowly.

“That might be the most attractive thing I’ve heard in months.”

He smiled, clearly pleased.

“Well, at least I’m not married and still out here trying to hook up. Low bar, but I’ll take the win.”

“Oh, trust me, the bar is in the basement. Some of these men out here are practically tunneling.”

Carter laughed.

“I’ve met a few of those women, too.”

Sarah sipped her wine and looked at him again. He wasn’t trying to be charming. He wasn’t pretending to be someone he wasn’t. There was no sales pitch, no curated persona. Just a guy being honest, and not in that manipulative, performative way some men weaponized. Just honest.

It wasn’t fireworks. It was a functioning adult conversation. And right now, that felt revolutionary.

He looked at her.

“So... is the night going to end with you pretending you lost my number?”

She smirked.

“I haven’t decided yet.”

“Fair. I’d ghost me too, just for the sport of it.”

She laughed, shaking her head.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet here we are. Still not terrible.”

That made her smile. For the first time in a long time, it wasn’t forced.

After dinner, they stepped out into the cool night air. The buzz of the restaurant faded behind them, replaced by the low hum of streetlights and the rumble of passing cars.

Sarah felt the wine settle in her limbs, just enough to loosen the edge she hadn’t realized she’d been gripping all day.

Carter held the door for her again, and they fell into step down the sidewalk.

“You know,”

he said, hands in his pockets.

“I wasn’t sure how tonight would go. I figured you might bail.”

Sarah glanced at him.

“Oh, I seriously considered it. Right up until I put on lipstick. Then I felt obligated.”

He grinned.

“Lipstick is powerful. Almost as powerful as committing to real pants on a weeknight.”

“Honestly,”

she said.

“I don’t remember the last time I wore a blouse that didn’t have some kind of snack residue on it.”

“You’re crushing it,”

he said.

“I didn’t even spot one Cheerio.”

She laughed, and it wasn’t a polite laugh; it was real.

“You’re lucky. Last week, I found a gummy bear stuck to the inside of my bra.”

“Impressive. Most women wait until the third date to confess that kind of intimacy.”

They reached her car, the moment hovering between goodnight and maybe more.

“Thanks for tonight,”

Sarah said, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear.

“It was unexpectedly decent.”

“You have a real gift for flattery,”

Carter said.

“But you’re welcome. And if you ever feel like wearing real pants and risking another decent night, I’d be up for it.”

She smiled.

“Just to be clear, this wasn’t a warm-up for some wild night back at your place.”

He held up his hands.

“I know. No assumptions. But for the record, I wouldn’t complain.”

“You’re honest. I’ll give you that.”

“Blame the wine,”

he said.

“Or maybe just the fact that I like talking to you.”

She unlocked the car, then turned to him.

“Goodnight, Carter.”

He took a step back, respectful.

“Night, Sarah.”

Sarah shut the car door and sat still for a beat. She stared at her reflection in the rearview mirror, her lipstick slightly faded, her expression unreadable.

“Wow,”

she whispered. Carter was confident. The kind of confidence that told her if she’d leaned in just right, they’d be tangled in his sheets by now, making terrible, beautiful mistakes. She smirked to herself.

“Here’s to restraint,”

she muttered, thumbing through her playlist.

When she found it, I Wanna Be Your Slave by M?neskin, she hit play and let the bass rattle through her spine.

That song was Carter. Cocky, flirtatious, just dangerous enough to make you wonder. And for a moment, she let herself enjoy the afterglow of a night that didn’t end in disaster. She wasn’t ready to fall again. But it felt good to remember that she could still want.

Meanwhile, Matt was in his new apartment, eating dinner over the sink like a single dad cliché. He’d just finished assembling Emily’s pink bookshelf for the bedroom she hadn’t slept in yet. His fingers were covered in blisters and wood glue.

The quiet was louder than the kids’ laughter, louder than even Sarah’s silences. He set his phone down and sighed, staring at the half-eaten spread from the upscale Chinese place across town. Lo mein in a black lacquered box, sesame chicken untouched, a craft beer sweating beside it.

Then, on impulse, he barked at the smart speaker.

“Play something that doesn’t make me hate myself.”

The speaker responded with ABBA.

He blinked. “Okay.”

Moments later, Dancing Queen blared through the apartment. Matt, still in his boxers and an inside-out T-shirt, started moving. Awkwardly at first, then with full commitment. He twirled, finger-pointed, and shuffled across the sticky tile floor, chopsticks in one hand, beer in the other.

The neighbor banged on the wall.

“For the love of GOD, NOOO!”

Matt spun toward the noise.

“She was the dancing queen,”

he shouted back, off-key and unrepentant.

The music blasted on. The beer sloshed. Lo mein flew.

And for thirty sweaty, ridiculous seconds, he felt, if not happy, then at least a little less alone.

He looked at his phone. No texts. No photos. Just a creeping certainty that something had shifted since the therapy session.

And it had.