Page 20 of The Last Love Story
“She’s right. Be safe. We love you. Have fun. Be good.”
As I walk through the door back into my room, Trish calls one last thing.
“Or be bad.”
I shake my head as the door clicks, but I can’t deny being bad sounds fun.
I’m chronically early.
I was late to middle school once, and my principal was on a warpath after being continuously disrespected by a bunch of students, so I ended up with a week full of lunch detention because it was unexcused. As the good girl who always followed the rules, I was miserable.
So, I made it a point to never be late again. Now it’s a problem because I’m often fifteen minutes early.
I’m only eight minutes early to the bar. That’s reasonable, at least.
“What can I get you?” a bartender asks as I lean against the counter.
I’m not risking sitting on one of the sleek but not particularly sturdy looking stools.
I hate furniture that looks nice but is impractical and barely holds any weight. I also hate that those thoughts ever run through my mind, but unfortunately, the world isn’t built for plus-size people. Just like how I have to go out of my way when I need a belt extender on an airplane. It should be able to be requested inadvance and waiting at your seat. But that’s life being a fat person in a thin person’s world.
I glance up at the menu. They have a bunch of fun specials that are meant to be romance-themed, though I wish they’d come up with cutesy names too. It would make them stand out more.
“I’ll have a frozen pomegranate margarita.”
“Coming right up.”
The bartender goes to make my drink, and I instantly feel a presence at my side.
I don’t know how, but I can tell it’s not Justin. Maybe because the energy feels too… smarmy.
“Pomegranate margarita, huh?”
I turn my head ever so slightly and see a tallish decently attractive guy. He’s staring at me with a look that makes my stomach turn.
This is why I rarely go to bars. I’d rather make drinks at home with my friends. Thank God there’re apps for hooking up now, so I don’t have to worry about going to bars for that.
“Yep.”
Ah, the dilemma of how to engage with a guy who clearly thinks I owe him something. Ignoring him or pissing him off can both be dangerous, but anything else can be too inviting. Thankfully, the bar isn’t too busy yet, so I can get the bartender’s full attention if I need it.
“Pomegranate. The fruit of sexual awakening.”
Oh god.
“I hadn’t heard that before,” I say coolly.
Ihave.But I haven’t heard someone say it in such an icky way.
Smarmy. My first impression was dead on.
“You must not be here for the romance convention, then.”
“I take it you are?” I still don’t look at him, and I keep my voice bored. There’s no way I’m telling this guy I’m an author.
“I am. I’m the romance guy. Darren Corval. I put themanin romance.”
I fight to keep my face neutral. Could hesound like more of a dick? I recognize the name, though. He’s an influencer who made a name for himself as a male “romance-lover.” I know plenty of people who love his content and know a few authors who have worked with him. Something about him always made me feel icky, though. Clearly, that was dead-on.
