Page 3 of Taking Chances

“First time. I’m kind of new in town and a friend recommended this place.”

“Smart friend. This place is awesome.”

I agree. Never have I seen the bartenders and servers so involved in keeping their clients safe. I also like the industrial style with mismatched tables and chairs and repurposed pipes and lightbulbs as decorations. She downs the rest of her glass quicker than I expected.

“My treat this time.” She gets up to make her way to the bar, but she sways on her feet.

“I don’t think so, Firecracker. I think it would be safer to get you home now.”

“Sorry, I never go home with someone on a first date,” she states with utter confidence, as if we’re on an actual date and we haven’t even introduced ourselves.

“Don’t worry, I’ll call you an Uber,” I say. The thought of taking her home hasn’t even crossed my mind. She’s undoubtedly attractive in a sweet, innocent type of way. And I don’t do innocent.

“Oh. Fine, then. Just got to use the bathroom.”

She gets back and her Uber pulls up. I slip the driver a few bills to walk her to her door and text me she’s home safe.

Getting on the bike, I head to my new place. As far as first nights in new cities go, this one was pretty interesting.

3

ANNE

My brain thumps painfully inside my skull as I try to open my eyes. The lights are blinding since I forgot to pull the curtains before I went to bed. The stench of alcohol fills the room, making bile rise in my throat.

I get up to use the bathroom and realize my make up is smeared all over my face. Fudge, I hate going to bed with make up on.

Showering, I wash my hair and drink three glasses of water before the beat in my head finally settles. The newfound clear-headedness only makes me remember yesterday’s events.

Bryce telling me he’s in love with someone else.

Me crying and deciding to drown my sorrows with alcohol.

Drinking alone in Factory.

Talking to an insanely hot, tattooed guy who flirted with me as if he was interested.

Nope. That can’t be right.

Guess I was more drunk than I thought if I managed to hallucinate a whole person and conversation. And I remember it with such clarity.

But it must be impossible. His looks alone are fictional. Striking blue eyes, a jawline that can cut glass, thick biceps, and veiny forearms covered in dark, detailed tattoos.

Even the way he talked was out of a romance novel. Firecracker? Arousal blooms in my core just thinking about him calling me that. Or hallucinating about him calling me that.

There’s no way that was real.

A coffee and some bacon and eggs, that’s exactly what I need to get my head on straight.

I leave my bedroom and notice a figure sitting on my kitchen island.

“Ahh,” I shriek, not expecting anyone.

“Annie,” Bryce says wistfully. “I’m really, really sorry.”

“Don’t call me that.” I urge my voice not to break. “What are you still doing here?”

“Just wanted to know you were OK. Are you?”

---