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“Miss Hart, good evening. I was hoping to see you tonight.” Harold, the five-foot-one, seventy-something bartender slides a martini to the woman in front of him, then meets me at the end of the bar.

“Hey, Harold.” I smile warmly. “How’s the shoulder?”

The old man shrugs, rotating his right cuff. “Good as new. My last therapy session was two weeks ago.”

“Good for you. No more sidewalk scooters for you, then?”

“No, ma’am. I’ve made a vow to never ride one of those things again.” He jerks his chin to the far corner of the room where a group of men sit on leather couches. “Your man is here; did you see him?

“I did. Is Carlos behaving?”

I glance over my shoulder to where Carlos sits in a cream Giorgio Armani suit, one long leg crossed over the knee, a Scotch in his hand. His long brown hair is pulled back in his signature ponytail, and his skin looks even more tanned than usual. He sits with the aloof swagger he’s known for, hardly paying any attention to the men around him.

“So far, yes. He just bought a few Cubans for himself and his crew. So far, that’s all he’s spent money on. I think they’re about to start the poker game. Will you be joining him at the table?”

“No. I’m only here to ensure Carlos behaves.”

“I heard it’s a half-million buy-in tonight.”

“Exactly.” I roll my eyes.

Harold chuckles. “Carlos would be broke without you.”

No—I’d be broke without me. Carlos’s money is basically my money.

“By the way, you look stunning tonight. When are you going to let me take you on a date?”

I take in Harold’s injured shoulder. He certainly fits my type: in need of help. I think of all my ex-boyfriends, and how, in every relationship, I stayed entirely too long. Why? Because I am a fixer-upper. Guilty as charged.

“Harold,” I say with a smile, “I’d bore you to death. Trust me on this.”

“Not looking like that, you wouldn’t.”

I snort, then sigh. “Is that all it takes these days, Harold? A skintight cocktail dress and a pair of Spanx?”

“In this town? Yes. But you see, Miss Hart, those women and their Spanx come and go as easily as the money in this room. Intelligent, polite, genuinely kind women like yourself are rare and meant to be worshipped.”

“Okay, fine. You got me. I’ll date you. Hell, I’ll marry you if you keep talking to me like that.”

“Perfect. How about we start by me buying you a drink. What would you like? The usual? Lemon Drop martini?

I smile. I have grown very fond of this man. “Yes, please, and let’s make it a double tonight.”

“A double, huh? What are we celebrating?”

“My birthday.”

“No kidding! How many years of life are we celebrating?”

“Twenty-something.” I wink. “And that’s all I’ll say.”

Harold chokes. “My daughter is older than you.”

“Family dinners will be awkward, then.”

He laughs, then turns toward the couple stepping up to the bar. “I’ll be back with that martini—and some champagne.”

“Thank you.”

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