Page 8 of Loose End

Clearly, I’m a mess.

Pretty sure if you looked up the definition of hot mess in the dictionary, you would find a picture of me sitting here in a dive bar with a crown on my head, nursing a raspberry and lime vodka soda.

He’s put together, freshly showered—if the strong smell of clove and sandalwood is any indication—and basically the total opposite of me. Not to mention drop dead gorgeous. His body is large and solid, making me feel dainty in a way Paul never did.His eyes, an aqua color reminding me of the docile waters of the Caribbean, draw me in and hold me in their magnetic pull.

It’s their fault I’m not hiking up my skirts and marching out of here.

I don’t even need to mention his smirk, complete with dimples, and how that affects me. Dang it. It’s their fault too.

Mr. Muscles can have anyone bouncing on his lap with a quirk of his brow and the promise of a good time. He doesn’t need me. He doesn’t want me. There’s no way.

He leans forward, a lock of his light brown hair falling over one eye, and I fight the urge to sweep it back in place.Dang those romance novels.He’s looking at me expectantly, patiently waiting for an answer I’m not sure I have. But then I remember Paul, and how he unapologetically swallowed an integral part of his best friend.

I don’t owe him anything. Certainly not my fidelity.

I’m not mad at Paul. I mean, I am, but I’m not. He is who he is, and I feel bad that he had to hide a part of himself. I’m mad at myself for not seeing what was so plainly in front of me. For turning a blind eye to everything that was going on because I didn’t want to face reality and accept that my life wasn’t as perfect as what I thought.

I may have spent the last several years blind, but not anymore. June Jones is going to start living her life. Starting now.

And then I’ll stop referring to myself in third person.

“Until you can put your money where your mouth is.” I make a point to glance down to his parted lips, ignoring the flash of tongue between his teeth. With a tiny shiver rolling down my spine, my eyes flick back up to meet his. “I’m going to assume you’re all talk. And I’m not a princess.”

He takes the beer he never ordered from the bartender with a nod and points up and down my dress. “Could have fooled mewith that getup. You look like you should be entertaining small children at a birthday party.”

“I was blowing up balloon animals earlier. You must have just missed it.”

“Shame. I bet you look real pretty blowing something up.”

I open my mouth. Close it. Take another sip of my drink. “Wouldn’t you like to find out,” I muse.

“I might like that.”

Oh my God, who am I right now?

I was wrong about the flirting. So wrong.

I lived with a man who preferred men and had no idea. My brain is broken. Either way, I’m sure he doesn’t want to sit here and talk to a sad girl in a wedding dress. There are plenty of fishies in the sea and most of them are out there on the dance floor wearing short skirts and low-cut tops.

They don’t have tiaras and broken dreams. Or at least if they do, they’re not wearing them.

I swish back around, swirling the tulle around my legs as I cross them, and resume staring at my drink. Muscles was a nice distraction from my evening of woe, but I’m not deluded enough to think he’s actually interested in me.

That is, until he taps me on the shoulder with his big manly hand and looks at me expectantly. And maybe almost like he’s surprised. That makes two of us.

“I’m sorry.” I blink at him a few times before continuing, “I wasn’t aware we were still having a conversation.”

He leans forward, cocking his head to the side as he watches me. I’m surrounded by his scent and I stop myself from closing my eyes and breathing him in. “We’re not done talking until I say we’re done talking. You got that, Princess?”

“Do I have a choice, Charming?”

“Charming, huh?” His lips quirk up in a smile. “I hate tobreak it to you, Princess, but there’s nothing charming about me. Especially not when you let me between those legs of yours.”

I’m glad I wasn’t taking another sip of my drink or I’d have choked. He’s forward.

And maybe I don’t hate it.

His brow quirks as his gaze travels the length of my ridiculous sparkly dress and returns to my face. I nearly swallow my tongue. There’s a light fluttery feeling in my belly that spreads like a wildfire beneath my skin. My heart pounds, my mouth dries, and my palms sweat.Just one simple look and I’m melting on this barstool.

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