Page 1 of Single All The Way

CHAPTER1

Kelsey

“Two. Cheaper for two.”

While stuffing my bag under the seat of the first airport transfer company I come across while exiting the domestic terminal, I reply, “I don’t need two seats.”

“Yes, two,” misunderstands the man with a heavy Russian accent. “Great prices. Get you to hotel quick smart.” He nudges his head to my triple-strength expresso that’s supercharging my veins with more than caffeine. “Hot chocolate still be hot at the reception desk.”

Dark locks swing against my bare shoulders when I spin to face him. Considering the month, it should be chilly. Florida just never seems to get the memo.Or perhaps it’s the nip of bourbon you added to your coffee with your duty-free purchases when the barista wasn’t looking?

After shrugging off the possibility that more than disappointment is heating my skin, I say, “I’m single.” When he looks at me, confused like I spoke in a foreign language, I try again. “Sin… gle.”

Breaking it up won’t help, Kelsey.

After holding my left hand in the air, I highlight my bare ring finger. “Single. No love. I’m going to be alone for the rest of my life.” My last five words come out with a low, pathetic whimper. It is December, the second most romantic month of the year—unless you’re single. Then it is as painful as a table for one on Valentine’s Day.

“Ohh…” the stranger drags out dramatically. “Single.” His bottom lip drops into a pout before he guides me into the empty seat next to the driver. I ignore the scorching burn of the coffee and bourbon as it slides down my throat when he adds, “Keep the good seats for the couples. Better tippers when in love. Everyone happy that way.”

* * *

“One hotdog or two? We have a buy-one-get-one-half-price special for Christmas.”

“I’m single,” I reply to the hotdog vendor one block up from my apartment building, my words slurred since I discovered I’d happily face the fiery burns of hell if it fades memories I don’t want to rehash. “Uno. Solo. Withoutelcompañero.”My Spanish is horrible given I haven’t visited my parents' home country in years.

When I take in the vendor’s shadowed jaw, tight body, and inky black eyes as he prepares my dinner for one, I murmur, “And available?”

Don’t look at me like that. Every woman on this side of LA knows there’s only one way up when you’re down.

With a star-inspiring orgasm.

The vendor’s smirk reveals he appreciates my underhanded compliment that I think he’s hot, but he still holds up the hand I flashed an hour ago.

He’s married. For a long time, by the looks of it. His ring is embedded in his finger. He couldn’t remove it even if he wanted to.

Although I want to be in the ‘who cares if he’s taken’ stage of my life, I’ve not yet reached that level of desperation, so I accept the loaded hotdog he’s holding out for me before wishing him and his wife a happy upcoming holiday season.

The vendor flashes a second grin. “Merry Christmas to you too, ma’am.”

Ma’am?How old does he think I am?

Don’t answer that. I don’t want this week to get worse.

As I trudge to my apartment building, my steps slow and sluggish, loved-up couple after loved-up couple pass me. Even a super cute old couple is holding hands on a bench. They’d have to be in their eighties, and the tips of their noses are red, but they’re staring up at the stars like their tongues are going to catch the first snowflakes of winter.

That’s what I want.

That’s what I thought I was getting.

Then he threw it away for someone with a pathetic name like Noelle.

Who cares Christmas is only two weeks away? The other eleven months of the year, she’ll look foolish pimping her Christmassy charm on unexpecting naïve men who shouldn’t be looking at her oversized baubles since they’re already in a committed relationship.

Ugh.We were in Oregon for crying out loud. Sweaters shouldnothave been optional.

After tugging on the hem of the micro shirt I stupidly tossed on before demanding Peter to drive me to the airport, I endeavor to pull open the door of my apartment building without letting go of my luggage.

I thought reminding Peter that Noelle isn’t the only woman in Oregon with ornaments on her chest would have him regretting his decision to ditch me for his high school sweetheart, which definitely wasn't what we'd travelled to his home town for.

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