Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 97592 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97592 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
By the time the elevator reaches the bottom floor of Brooke’s building, I’ve decided on a plan. With the week—hell, the last several years—I’ve had, I think I deserve it.
I’m going to go home and take my time getting ready. I’m going to fix my hair and my makeup and put on something that makes me feel good. Sexy, even.
And then, I’m taking myself out for a drink because I am a strong, independent woman who doesn’t need—or have time for—a man.
Bailey’s, a little bar in Midtown, is more vibrant and more crowded than I ever imagined it’d be. I’ve heard about it from enough La Croisette customers that I probably should have realized it’s a beacon of Manhattan popularity, but when your personal life is as dry as mine, I guess you tend to think it’s the same for everyone else.
Are we not all sitting at home just trying to survive?
It takes a bit of patience, but eventually, a seat opens up at the bar, and I fling my ass into it with stunning immediacy. There’s one thing I’ll fight for in this life with consistency, and it’s a place to sit down.
It only takes a few minutes after that to order my drink, and before I know it, I’m sipping on white wine like I know what the fuck I’m doing.
Spoiler alert: I do not.
Being at a bar, by myself, for the first time in many, many years is way out of my comfort zone and a true lesson in humbling oneself.
I glance around a bit, feeling nervous about being on my own and the small talk I might have to make with strangers. Outside of work, I spend an astonishing amount of my time talking about poop, pee, not touching either of the two, and in a startling third place, dinosaurs. I think it’s a boy-mom thing.
Eventually, though, after I’ve managed to drink half of my glass of wine, I relax into my barstool a little more. I even find myself taking inventory of all the people in this joint, pointedly picking out the men who appear to be couple-less and aren’t showcasing a wedding ring on their hands.
But it’s all pointless.
It’s not like I’m going to try to talk to any man I deem eligible. Hell, Gavin Evans, one very eligible and successful man, asked me out yesterday, and I told him no. When he texted me something super-sweet and comforting, I didn’t even respond.
I’m a social pariah.
The only thing I can count on getting out of this evening is the enjoyment of a glass of wine and experiencing the feeling of being on my own, without kids. Which, I’ll admit, is a welcome change of pace.
And, hell, I guess I can also silently suss out the best-looking men in the bar. There’s never any harm in looking, right?
Right.
One sip of wine at a time, I let my eyes continue their inventory down the massive bar, passing swiftly over a few men who look to be midseventies and then pausing on a woman who seems to be wearing every piece of jewelry she owns. She’s animated with confidence, and those around her laugh as she tells some kind of joke. Another drink of wine, and I stop on a dime when the sight of dark hair and strong shoulders fills my view.
Okay, he definitely has potential…
Even from behind, there’s a calm strength about his posture that inclines me to keep looking. I put the glass to my lips, willing him to turn his face a little—just enough to give me a peek at what he’s working with from the front.
Cool liquid touches my tongue just as he does the same to my eyes, and I nearly choke on my wine when I realize the attractive man in question is someone I know.
Oh my God. Noah is here. And I’m gawking at him.
All I can hear is the sound of Brooke’s annoying voice in my head. “Out of eleventy billion bars in the city, you picked the one where you run into him? This is a sign, Sam!”
I shake my head against the incessant power of her mental takeover, but the Brooke of my imagination keeps pushing just like the nasty old devil would if he were sitting on my shoulder. “I’ll freaking kill you if you waste this opportunity. You know that, right?”
I nearly laugh. My imagination isn’t far off the truth. Brooke Baker will definitely murder me if I let the opportunity to chat up Noah Philips in this bar go unused.
Okay, fine. Fine! I’ll do it.
It takes a hot minute for me to gather some courage, but ultimately, I do. I slide off my stool with my wineglass in hand and weave my way through the crowd toward the other side of the bar where Noah sits. He’s mostly keeping to himself; though he does exchange a few good-natured hellos with people he’s probably seen before in his immediate vicinity.