Page 1 of The 7 Rules of Moving On
UNWRITTEN RULE: THE WINGWOMAN CAN’T HOOK UP
KISSIE
There was a secret dance move performed by people healing from a broken heart, head thrown back, eyes closed, arms reaching up for the ceiling, swaying in place like a palm tree. Once you knew what to look for, you couldn’t miss it.Dawn, invincible on the dance floor, swaying to nothing even close to the beat of Daft Punk’s “Get Lucky,” was not only performing this secret dance move, she was crushing it.
Bracketing her mouth with her hands, Kissie hollered, “Woohoo! Get it girl!” from her barstool.
Dawn gave her a double thumbs up in response while some random tall guy wearing a cowboy hat and Wranglers started dancing on her ass.
Dawn was doing her thing, dancing that prick Danny right out of her heart, shaking him out of her life with every shake of her hips. Which was the entire damn point of this trip.Crushing it.
Turning away from the dance floor, Kissie’s sigh rustled a corner of her bar napkin. Hot Bartender was heading her way again, bringing his flannel shirt, dark eyelashes, and bonkers forearm muscles with him.
While Dawn had been drinking and dancing and living her best life at this quaint hot springs resort in the tiny town of Twin Hearts, Montana, Kissie had been low-key flirting with Hot Bartender like it was her job. It was impossible not to. He had this Keanu Reeves thing going for him, if Neo had been fully bearded, burly, thick… but they had the same smile, the same rich brown eyes that seemed to stare straight into a person’s soul, the same ‘fuck yes’ approach to life Kissie could absolutely not get enough of.
“Need another?” he asked, grinning that grin.Holy hell, that grin. White teeth, ruby lips, a little sly. It was smile porn.
After three Bay Breezes, Kissie was dangerously close to taking the exit off buzzed highway and careening straight into drunk town. Which was something she couldn’t do. She had to keep her wits, because she had a very important job this weekend. She was Dawn’s wingwoman, the guardian of her honor, the arbiter of her questionable post-breakup decisions. Most importantly, Kissie enforced the rules.
Kissie lived by the rules. Rules were the only things that kept the world from spinning out into chaos.
“No thanks, Hot Bartender. Maybe a soda water? With a slice of lemon?”
“That’s strange.” The lights glinted off his teeth likeka-chingwhile he poured sparkling water over ice and slid a lemon slice onto the rim. “I don’t remember telling you my name.”
“You must have,” she replied.
“Hmmm. Suspicious.” Setting her drink in front of her, he leaned forward, crossing his arms on the bar. His thick, roping, mesmerizing forearm muscles coaxed her consideration like a snake from a basket. “Because I usually go by my middle name.Hotis so obvious, don’t you think?”
She matched her forward lean to his, more than happy to play along. “Hotis pretty on the nose.”
One of his thick, straight brows floated up.
“So, what is it then?”
“What’s what?” he replied, popping the top off an IPA and sliding it down the bar to a man who caught it blind like they’d choreographed the entire performance, or maybe they’d just done it a hundred times. Things like that happened in small towns like this, Kissie knew. The same people, the same bar, night after night after night.
“What’s the middle name you usually go by?”
“Sexbomb.”
She laughed, twirling her straw between her fingers. “Hot Sexbomb Bartender.”
“That’s what it says on my birth certificate.” He drew a deliciously long finger across his heart. “Hope to die.”
Waving a hand through the air, Kissie made apsshhhnoise.
“Are you implying that I’m being dishonest?”
Her smile felt a little too big for her face. “Not in so many words.”
“Ryan?” he shouted down to the man he’d slid the beer to.
“Yo!” Ryan shouted back. He was a lithe, loose-limbed hottie with bronzed skin and swoopy black hair. Kissie thought he must live in this bar because he was always there, sitting right in that same spot.
“What’s my middle name?”
Not missing a beat, Ryan answered, “Sexbomb!”
