Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 73454 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 367(@200wpm)___ 294(@250wpm)___ 245(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73454 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 367(@200wpm)___ 294(@250wpm)___ 245(@300wpm)
“Screwdriver,” she says with a smile, settling on the offered seat. I turn my body, lean an elbow on the bar top, and make eye contact with the bartender. “Another beer and a Screwdriver.”
He nods, and I return my attention to the beautiful woman who just surprised the shit out of me. “I’m not used to women offering to buy me a drink,” I admit to her. Sticking my hand out, I give her my first name only. “Cage.”
With confidence, she firmly grips my hand. “Jaime.”
“Nice meeting you.”
“Well,” she drawls, giving me a coy look from under long lashes, “I saw you sitting here when I came out of the ladies’ room, and you looked like you could use some company.”
I cock an eyebrow. I’m not sure if she’s being genuinely nice, thinking I might need a friend, or if she’s actually hitting on me. If she thinks I need a friend, she’d be wrong, but that makes her kind of adorable. If she’s actually hitting on me, I’m all for that. Up close, she’s even more beautiful than I thought when I saw her across the room.
She has a pale complexion with a light smattering of freckles across her nose. Her eyes aren’t green like mine, but rather a blue that reminds me of a glacial lake I’d once fished in Montana. She’s not heavily made up… only a bit of mascara and lip gloss, but she has one of those arresting faces that doesn’t need more than its natural beauty to get people to do a double-take.
Taller than most women, she still only comes up to my shoulder. She’s not dressed to go clubbing, but rather for a night walking around downtown Pittsburgh, in dark leggings and a long sweater that comes down past her ass. It’s thin and form-fitting—not bulky—and I can tell she’d look fabulous naked and splayed out on my bed.
“It looked like you had the weight of the world on your shoulders,” Jaime explains. “And well, I’m a natural fixer of people’s problems, so I thought I’d come and be nosy. Also, it helps you’re really hot, too.”
Wow. A combination of both—extending friendship and hitting on me at the same time. Refreshing.
The bartender returns with our drinks, and I push the Screwdriver closer to her, ignoring my beer for the moment. “Truth be told, I’m actually feeling pretty light and happy. Had a big victory at work, and so having a few beers to celebrate.”
“Oh yeah?” she inquires before taking a sip of her drink. She nods at it. “Thank you, by the way. So what’s the big victory?”
I quickly sift through the handful of fake jobs I’ve given women over the years, settling on, “I’m a car salesman. I hit my quota for the month.”
Her eyes brighten, her lips quirking upward before splitting into a smile. “Well, good for you. Congrats.”
Before she can ask me detailed questions about my fake job, I ask, “What do you do?”
“I’m a social worker,” she replies, her expression brightening even more, which says she has a tremendous passion for what she does. “I work for a coalition that coordinates all domestic violence programs in the state of Pennsylvania. In other words, I help women and their children get out of bad situations.”
For a moment, I’m humbled, realizing this woman is far too good for me to engage in a one-night stand. She’s not the usual ditzy bombshell I can have a fun romp with in bed for one night and shake free the next day.
It’s why I don’t tell my real profession. I’ve found that women tend to cling tighter when they find out I work for a cutting-edge security services firm that does exciting and dangerous work all over the world. However, giving them a boring profession doesn’t make me seem all that interesting out of the bedroom and just makes one-night stands a lot easier.
For a moment, I consider downing my drink and heading out, but she keeps me engaged by asking, “Is that a southern accent I detect?”
Smiling, I nod. “Born and raised in North Carolina. But it’s evened out a bit over the years.”
“It’s cute,” she admits, taking another sip of her drink. “I’m from Pittsburgh, born and raised. My dad’s a third-generation steelworker.”
I frown, confused. “I thought the steel industry collapsed.”
It’s what Pittsburgh was known for until steel prices took a nosedive in the eighties due to market saturation. Now Pittsburgh is known for banking, excellent medical facilities, and championship football, hockey, and baseball.
Jaime shakes her head. “It’s true the industry here isn’t a fraction of what it used to be, but U.S. Steel still has a couple of factories in the area. My dad works at the Edgar Thompson plant in Braddock.”
“What exactly does he do?” I ask, interested to know more.