Page 236 of Not Over You

I slide the shawl around my shoulders and sweep my hair out so dark tresses fall down the middle of my back. "You're right, this is silly. I've got to go, and I can't get the thing off anyway."

Trudy smiles. "Then I guess you were meant to wear it tonight."

MACK

I have no business attending this event, but instead of making my way to the door, I slide deeper into the soft leather chair. The smooth amber bourbon with notes of tobacco spice and honey warm my chest as the brunette in blue with the perfectly rounded backside stands right in my line of vision.

This is, by far, the best way I’ve spent my evening in a very long time.

But not even this second drink can ease the fact that I stick out like a sore thumb in my leather jacket and jeans in a room full of designer suits. I definitely missed the memo on the dress code.

I was told that tonight’s meeting would be an interview for a backwoods fire station in the sticks of rural Pennsylvania. I wasn't expecting to walk into a black-tie event. I should’ve known better when Chuck told me I was meeting with mogul Owen Brocker. He’s the owner of this fine establishment, CEO of Brocker Industries, and a member of a well-known family with billions in their bank account.

Running my fingers through my hair, I spot a blonde with an hourglass figure. Her dark purple dress has a neckline that leaves little to the imagination. She locks eyes with me and licks the corner of her lips while her eyes bore into mine. One side, then the other, sliding her tongue across her bottom lip.

I quirk my lips and look away. Sorry, sweetheart, you're not my type. Judging by the size of the rock on your finger, whoever married you can afford a small army of guards who would gladly dent the head of anyone stupid enough to play under your skirt.

My eyes involuntarily seek out the brunette in blue.

I know why I like her. It pisses me off even admitting it to myself. She reminds me of the girl that I couldn’t say the name of for an entire fucking year because I was so broken up over our breakup. You know, the girl who shows you a glimpse of what real happiness looks like, what it’s like to have a best friend, and what true love feels like. The girl who opens your eyes to heaven on earth.

My heaven on earth was the one who got away, my Brooke.

I huff out a laugh and drain the rest of my bourbon, trying to lose myself in the burn and pull myself back to the present moment. It’s too late. If I had known that staring at the lovely ass of a brunette with legs for days from across the room would trigger memories of my ex, I would’ve left an hour ago.

Brooke Sheridan, my little honeybee. That’s what I used to call her. She surprised me on our third anniversary when she came home with one tattooed on her left shoulder. She told me that it was a reminder to always kiss her there. She loved it when I’d slide up behind her, sweep her hair to the side, and whisper against the sensitive skin of her shoulder, "How’s my honeybee today?"

One year later, after her college graduation and my proposal, she ripped my heart out with her bare hands.

I shake my head. Brooke was the only girl I ever proposed to, and seeing my ring on her finger made me feel like after a lifetime of bad decisions and wrong choices, I'd finally made the right one.

Then she told me to get my act together, and when I did, she crushed my heart and bailed.

I shipped off to war, and she packed her bags and went south. I was told she settled in Charleston and was engaged to someone else within a year.

I sit up a bit once I spot the lady in blue among the growing crush of guests. My eyes narrow on her left shoulder. No tattoo, no honeybee. Not that I expected it to be her, that’s a little insane. Brooke’s long gone, married, living in the South, probably a mother of two by now.

But whoever the lady in blue is, she's holding court with a small group of guests that seem to be hanging on her every word. Is she the infamous Mrs. Brocker? She could be. Wrapped in light blue silk, she has an aura of grace and poise that comes naturally to women with power. Still no glimpse of her face, though, just her delectable back that I’ve been imagining trailing kisses across all evening.

I fidget in my seat, growing cagey. It’s getting late, and tonight’s not about tempting women, but rather checking a promise to a friend off my to-do list. According to Chuck, or Senator Stamm as most would call him, he said that Owen Brocker requested a meeting with me by name.

Why? No idea.

Sure, I’ll take the interview as a favor to Chuck, but not the job. I still have irons in the fire in DC that I need to deal with. Fortunately, I know how to handle rich people. It’s a skill I’ve acquired in my line of work in security for government officials.

Since Brocker's a long-standing campaign donor of Chuck’s, I’ll play along, answer all his questions, smile, and nod. Then, tomorrow morning, I'll graciously decline Brocker's job offer, wrangle Ryker and Tyson, and drive back to DC.

Setting aside my empty glass of bourbon, I scan the room. I don’t see any sign of tonight’s host. Owen Brocker sounds like the kind of guy who would stand out amongst a crowd.

I am curious to hear how he found out about me. I never know what to expect when I first meet people. I wear multiple hats, ex-Special Forces, firefighter, and former California smoke jumper, and now I’m an armed security specialist. Some want to thank me for my military service, others want to know what it’s like skydiving into forest fires, and sometimes people mistake me for a hitman for hire.

My cell buzzes, and I check my texts with a groan.

Ryker: This place isn’t half bad, I found a great dive bar. Brownies Tavern. Ditch the interview and join me.

Of course, he found a tavern. Ryker sniffs out dive bars like a bloodhound. And just like a hound on the loose, he’ll prowl around, sniff out trouble, and then try to hump something before he comes home.

Me: Where’s Tyson?

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