Page 20 of Troublemaker
More than ten men—all older, some much, much, much older—had hit on me tonight, buying me drinks and propositioning me.
“How much?” one had asked, and even though he’d been attractive and smelled good, I told him with a smile I was waiting for someone and watched him shrug and walk away.
I didn’t want anyone. I wasn’t turned onat all. All I wanted to do was go home and get in bed and cry over the fact that the one man I wanted didn’t want me. Was maybe even on a date with someone else. Someone age-appropriate who held my future in her hands.
Currently, I was in the women’s bathroom, staring at myself in the mirror. A sad but determined girl looked back. It was a look I recognized, one I’d seen in the mirror many times, when my parents rejected me, when I had milestones but no one to share them with. Until I’d met Leslie, I’d never even really had a real friend, just boys who wanted to sleep with me and girls whowanted to keep me close so I didn’t sleep with their boyfriends…as if I would.
“You can do this, Braverman,” I told my reflection. “Youneedto do this. What, are you going to be, an eighty-year-old virgin because of a stupid childhood crush?”
I heard laughter. In the mirror, a woman stood behind me, watching. She grinned.
“Honey, I’ve been in your position. And I promise you, the only way to get over someone…”
Yeah, yeah.
“Is to get under someone else. I know,” I said.
“Good.” She wielded her lipstick at me like a baton. “Now, you go get yourself under someone.”
“Will do.”
I squared my shoulders, fixed my lipstick, and with one confident wink I didn’t feel, turned and headed back out to the lobby bar.
The bartender, a cute dude with glasses, nodded at me when I hopped back on the barstool I’d been sitting in earlier.
“Kept it safe for you,” he said. “Kept your drink safe for you, too.”
I blinked. “My drink?”
He tilted his head. “Gentleman on the other side of the bar bought it for you. Said you seemed like a French 75 kind of woman.”
I had no idea if I was a French 75 kind of woman. I didn’t even know what a French 75 was. I was a freshman in college; my drink of choice was tequila shots with too much salt and lime.
Still, I’d try it.
Searching out the man who’d gotten it for me, my eyes widened.
Because he washot.
Tall, broad, blond, in a clearly bespoke suit and tie, he stared back at me with green, mischievous eyes and an easy smile. They were a paler green than Coach’s eyes, thank god.
Tipping the drink at the hot man, I took a sip.
It was way too sweet, and I tried not to make a face but failed.
I saw him laugh.
Then he rose from his seat and made his way over to me.
I waited, putting the drink down. I didn’t care that he’d bought it for me, there was no way I was drinking that.
“Not a French 75 woman, I take it?” the man inquired when he reached me.
“I guess not,” I said. “Honestly, I like tequila shots.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Well, I haven’t had a tequila shot in ten years, but there’s a first and last time for everything, I guess.”
I giggled. “Then let’s do shots.”
