Chapter 1

Nine o’clock to ten o’clock. That is the sweet spot of my day, every day. It’s when the oppressive weight of sobriety has been lifted by the first few drinks. But before eleven or twelve, when I’m shitty and mean because I’ve had too many and I’m trying to get back to my personal happy hour by pouring more Jack down my throat. But you don’t go back. That’s the fucking rub of it. Every night. There’s no going back. You think I would learn that lesson.

But I don’t.

I drink, I chase, I push, I break.

Then I stumble into bed, sometimes alone, sometimes not. Then I wake up with a dry mouth and an anger that simmers on low. It heats as the day goes on until I can hit the bar.

And mentally flip off my day, my ex, my brother, my life.

I don’t really mind my job, which is how I can get out there on the water day after day, busted and hungover. I’m a lobster fisherman, and on the water, where I can chuck my stomach contents over the side if needed, no one gives a shit if I’m a dick. A sour-faced asshole, sullen, quiet, occasionally coughing up a laugh. The other guys are used to me and the fish don’t care. I need the open air, crave it. In town the buildings close in on me, smother me, wrap their wooden clapboard arms around me and squeeze until I can’t breathe.

Funny then, that I love the bar, that I open that door with anticipation, and it welcomes me inside like the kiss of a lover. The low ceilings, the wormy wood, the dim lighting, should make me claustrophobic, but they don’t. Here, I know there will be distractions. Liquor. Conversation. Women. All of which help me to forget about a pair of blue eyes in the solemn face of a two-year-old child, a halo of blond curls around those pink cheeks.

Out on the ocean, I have time to think. Home alone at night, my thoughts strangle me like an extension cord wrapped around my neck, choking out my air.

But here, at The Thirsty Moose, in the arms of my addiction, I am the closest to happy I can be.

My name is Cain Jordan and I’m an alcoholic.

And I have no fucking intention of changing that.

---

“This is a joke. I’m not stepping foot out of the house like this.” I looked in the mirror and saw a complete stranger. One who looked a lot like my sister, Bella, who was standing behind me in heels, beaming. I was instantly on the verge of an identity crisis, even though I knew the fastest way to achieve my goal for the night was to submit to Bella’s makeover. But damn, it was hard to look at. Like fashionista roadkill. The glam was horrifying, but I couldn’t look away.

Behold, the bedazzling of Sophie Bigelow, “The Girl with the High IQ and Zero Tolerance for Bling.” The look was signature Bella. What I liked to rock was what I called Cute Chic. Combat boots and high-waisted jeans with slouchy, off-the-shoulder sweaters. The vibe of “I cared, but I needed to be comfortable.” This was not comfortable. This was me on sexy steroids.

“But you look pretty,” Bella said, fussing with my hair, which she had diligently curled.

Between the curls, the fake eyelashes, the contouring, and whatever makeup voodoo she had conjured so that my lips appeared double their natural size, I looked like I had a Kylie Jenner fetish. It worked on Kylie. It worked on my sister. It did not do a damn thing for me. Somewhere under my sister’s canvas was the real me. The one who thought mascara and tinted lip balm constituted being made up and who was certain that push-up bras were the invention of the devil.

A niggle of doubt pushed through my previous confidence. I had run the numbers—mathematically, it was guaranteed to work. But only if I could follow through, and right now I wanted to do nothing more than to bury my head in a book and pretend I was a cyborg who was not interested in men or sex.

“Bella, I can’t even see.” I tried to blink and the fake eyelashes didn’t move. They were alien creatures perched above my eyeballs, dominating my view. It was like trying to see the world through the legs of a centipede. “The eyelashes, paired with the shoes, and it is one hundred percent possible I will fall and die tonight.” I kicked the heels off and gave an immediate sigh of relief. Better. I had to draw a line.

She made a face, still playing with my hair. “You know, everyone always accuses me of being dramatic. But because you’re smarter than me, no one seems to notice that you are the world’s biggest exaggerator. You’re not going to fall, so put those back on. You’re a brat, but you’re not clumsy. And this is why we’re doing this—it’s a test run. You’re breaking the look and the shoes in before the wedding.”

Oh, right, the wedding. Otherwise known as “The Wedding to End All Weddings.” “The Fairy Tale Fantasy Nuptials.” “Bella’s Current Reason for Being.” “The Most Pretentious Display of Excess Ever.” And the culmination of Bella’s two-year campaign to get her boyfriend Bradley to take it to the next level. So we were here, at our parents’ summer house in Camden, Maine, getting ready for the big day.

I pushed her hand aside, mildly annoyed that she had said I was exaggerating. None of this was my scene and that was no lie. I was the anomaly in the Bigelow family, the only one generally unconcerned with appearances, which drove my sister and my mother absolutely freaking insane. My father didn’t care, but then my father didn’t care about his family much to speak of anyway. His days and thoughts revolved around making money, golfing, and flirting online with women in bikinis who claimed to be aspiring sportswear models. I know that because I’ve looked, because I’m nosy.

“It’s a beach wedding. Can’t I wear sandals?” I said, because I really, really hate heels. If it’s not flip-flops, Converse, or boots, I don’t want to wear them. Bella is two years older than I am and we have a lifelong relationship that centers around her trying to make me over, and me resisting. Tonight I was going along with it because one) it was her wedding and two) I wanted to get laid.

But I couldn’t resist pushing back on the sandals because Rome wasn’t conquered in a day. I should take this in baby steps. Hair, makeup, tight dress, check. The heels were on a whole different level. Grad school versus middle school. I had asked Bella about wearing sandals to the wedding about three hundred times already and I knew what her reaction would be. She didn’t disappoint me.

She stomped her foot. Like, legit stomped her foot like a toddler, and I fought back a grin. But it was so easy to get a rise out of her, even when I wasn’t actually trying. She always thought I was being stubborn just to be a jerk, but I genuinely hate wobbling around on stilts while my toes are smothered by leather. It’s like strapping toothpicks onto a newborn colt and telling him to walk. Wearing heels is a sport and I don’t want to play.

“Stop asking me that! No sandals! Ugh! We’re not getting married on the sand. That’s why they’re called sand-als.” Her face scrunched up and somehow she made her tantrum look adorable.

Bella was beautiful. She always had been. She was also one of the sweetest people I’ve ever known, her thoughts simple, her heart pure. I felt bad, the way I always did, when I inadvertently goaded her and she fell for it. “I’m sorry, okay. I’ll shut up. But for the record, I want it noted I’m doing that for you, not because I want to, and only at the wedding.”

My sister never seemed nervous when it came to event planning, but it occurred to me that maybe she was. Getting married was a Big Fucking Deal and despite her confidence that she had her wedding and her life carefully planned, maybe she was anxious. I needed to respect that. The whole wedding was, to me, a designer circus, but this was what Bella wanted. What she had always wanted. I was trying to back her, I really was, but I sucked at all of this. I was way more comfortable back at grad school in class than playing right-hand man to the bride. I was too literal. Everyone knew that. I knew that. And sometimes I was too honest, which made people uncomfortable. That was never my intention, but I had never learned the art of conversation, the dance of choreography where everyone speaks in subtext. I’m too factual and generally speaking, that makes for a shit hostess.

Which was why my mother had secretly hired someone to do all my maid of honor duties. She didn’t think I could do it. It made me hugely uncomfortable to be taking the credit for fabulous ideas that were not at all mine, but I had agreed to it because there was no denying I blow at party planning and I didn’t want to disappoint Bella.

“Will you relax?” Bella chastised. “Now, let’s go out and have fun.”

Something I also normally despised. Not fun, per se, but fun that involved singing along to ancient Journey songs in a crowded bar that most likely had fire code violations. Bella’s idea of a great night was to go to a bar and have men admire her and buy her drinks. My idea of fun was quantifiable statistics with a side of Star Trek trivia. But I knew I had to go. Not just for Bella, but for me.

I was going to approach a particular problem tonight—that of my virginity—and solve it. What better place than somewhere far away from where I grew up in Boston and nowhere near my college campus. It had become an issue. When you reach the age of damn near twenty-five and hadn’t relinquished your V-card, the assumption is you’re waiting for Mr. Right, which basically ruins potential relationships before they even have a shot. Or men assume you’re a freak.

I wasn’t either. I wasn’t holding out for some magical-unicorn-over-the-rainbow-he-played-the-harp-in-a-meadow kind of moment. I just never quite got around to it, and now it was too late to have that first teen love where you fumble over each other and explore and discover all the amazing things a body can do. Nope, missed that. I was busy studying for the SAT, which I didn’t regret, but a little more work-play balance would have been advisable. Then, as an undergrad, I had had a boyfriend, but ours was a meeting of the minds. We bonded over calculus and spent every day together, holding hands, making out but never actually having sex. Because as it turned out, he was a genius who did in fact love my mind, but not my vagina, because he was gay and trying to pretend otherwise.

After that I had stuck to friendships and studying and shower sex with myself. It had gotten to the point of pure ridiculousness. I used to roll my eyes when girls would claim to be a “woman” after initial penetration, but now I was uncomfortably aware of the fact that everyone in the free world knew the secret of sex and I was still playing with toys. Literally.

“I can do that,” I told Bella. “I can have fun.”

As long as no one defined “fun.”

Now I just wanted to go out, have a nice, sweaty hookup, then be able to move on with my life, and potentially find a boyfriend who liked my body and my mind, and do the standard conscious-coupling thing.

“Okay, then. Good. Sophie, you just have to be open to new experiences.”

What I wanted to be open to was a penis, but I could never tell her that. Bella didn’t like the way I reasoned out life. She operated on emotion, and she was a lover of romance, inspirational quotes, and kittens. The kittens I was on board with. The rest was not my thing. Romance and science aren’t a natural pairing and I’ve never met an inspirational quote that didn’t need to be stamped with a giant “OBVIOUS” all over it. See? Too literal. That’s me.

Bella checked her own makeup and fussed with her controlled beach waves, her hair a blond halo around her heart-shaped face.

I’m not an ogre, but I don’t have the definition of features that make women considered beautiful. My eyes are brown. My hair is equally brown. My skin is creamy and smooth, but my lips are (normally) thin, and I cannot be bothered to wrestle my eyebrows into penciled-on perfection. I want to be considered attractive, because who the hell doesn’t, but I had never devoted the time or the energy required to take my looks to their highest potential. Bella was born beautiful, so precious that even jaded nurses came over to coo at her and admire her perfect features. I was born blinking like an owl, my mother always said. And watching everyone and everything like a hawk, according to my father.

I put on pink Converse. “Not a word,” I told her. “I’ll wear the heels to the wedding but not to a bar.” I was already squeezed into the world’s shortest and tightest dress, which seemed excessive for a Tuesday in June in coastal Maine, but I was willing to own it. And the eyelashes. That counted for something. I wasn’t killing myself in the heels too.

Bella sighed, disappointed in her protégée, but she did begrudgingly add, “On you, it kind of works.”

“Thanks, Be.” We were in Bella’s room and when we left I turned the light on, off, on, off, four times. It’s a tic and it drives Bella crazy. I have a few tics—my mother refusing to acknowledge that I am borderline OCD, I, well aware that I am. I have an obsessive mind that fixates and churns in circles around and around. It’s why I love math. It isn’t circular. It can go on and on but there is either an answer or infinity, which I love. Give me a solution to an equation and I’m happy.

Bella sighed. “Why must you do that?”

“It’s what I do when I’m nervous. It confirms the flow of electricity for me, but also that I can control it. But then when I do it, I doubt the results and need to test them again.”

I knew what she was thinking—that I was a freak. But she didn’t say anything. Bella was easy to read. I could practically hear her thoughts—the “why the fuck does it matter?” that was running through her head. But she had lived with me for the majority of her twenty-six years. She knew there was no point in asking the question. I’d already given her my answer, whether she understood it or not.

The house was quiet as we went downstairs. My parents weren’t arriving until the weekend, and Bradley wouldn’t be there until after that. Bridesmaids and groomsmen were due in a week. This was the first time Bella and I had been alone in the house. It was six thousand square feet, so it was a little eerie to be staying there without our parents and a parade of other relatives and my mom’s friends. The water views, so peaceful and beautiful during the day, unnerved me at night with no one else around. Bella liked to watch TV and talk to Bradley on Facetime and I had been on my laptop, avoiding the wall of windows. The bay seemed too dark, too vast, in the silent house. My father had built the house five years earlier and I had never thought of it as lonely, but it felt that way now.

So for that reason as well, I was glad to get the hell out of there and head to town. Leave my father’s enormous house that hovered arrogantly over the sea, defying nature. Be a normal girl, like my sister, out for the night in a tourist town.

I saw him the minute we walked into the bar. A guy perched comfortably on a stool, his arms muscular, his grin confident, arrogant. He had short, dark hair and a jawline that was sharp and symmetrical. Dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, this was no software engineer or physicist. This was one of those manly men that they use for memes on Pinterest and for beer commercials and underwear ads. He was abs and ass, muscles and machismo, and like any other female, I had an immediate reaction to all that testosterone.

My heart started to race and my body started to tense and tighten and grow warm in places that normally only got hot and wet in the privacy of my own apartment. I wanted to fan myself as I stared at him, blinking through the veil of mascara and fake lashes.

It was like my vagina stood up and sang. Him. He would be the one. The man to take my virginity and make it a memory. He wasn’t my type, but that wasn’t the point. He wouldn’t be interested in me either, but I knew enough about bar culture to know that if he was here, he was interested in going home with a girl. I could be that girl.

I was delusional, of course, a fact I was forced to acknowledge immediately when I realized that despite the fact that my dress had coaxed huge cleavage from my reluctant breasts, the hottie was checking out my sister.

So typical. But I couldn’t deny that blondes were more fun. At least more fun than me.

I walked past him to the bar and plucked the menu off the countertop, debating how to proceed. Men. The one equation I could never solve.

---

I saw her the minute she stepped into the bar. The blonde with the big smile and even bigger tits. She knew how to walk in her high heels, swinging her hips with that roll designed to make guys get hard. She reeked of money. It was there in those shoes, that one-piece shorts thing she was wearing, and a pricey-looking handbag. Not a local. Not a tourist. She belonged to one of those new-build mansions that had sprung up along the coast. Daughter of a rich man, without a doubt.

She was perfect for a hookup. The daddy’s girls always loved to slum with the townie guys. It made them feel naughty and I was more than happy to be used to give them their imaginary street cred. The best thing about it was then they left. Went back to wherever they came from and I never had to see them again. Usually the next time they were at their father’s summer compound, they pretended not to know me. That worked for me.

I gave the blonde a smile, sipping my whiskey. Happy hour was mellowing me. My shoulders had relaxed a little, giving in to the alcohol. My body was at home on the stool and I was mildly interested in having company tonight if it was easy. I wasn’t going to work for it. Let it come to me.

The blonde approached me. “Hi! I’m Bella.”

Her enthusiasm was flattering. “Hey. Cain.”

She didn’t sit down on the stool next to me but perched over the bar, waving to the bartender. The blonde ordered a chardonnay. That made me want to laugh, if I still actually knew how. A fucking chardonnay in a seaside dive bar. The bartender’s name was Sarah and she had gone to school with me. She shot me a look of “are you fucking kidding me?” and said, “All I have is white zinfandel.”

“Sure, that’s fine.”

Sarah went and returned with a tiny bottle, which she unscrewed. For a second I thought she was going to be a smart-ass and just hand the blonde the bottle but she did pour it into a glass, though it was a whiskey glass, not a wine goblet.

Watching the exchange amused me more than it should. “You’d be better off going to the store,” I told Bella. “And getting yourself a full-size bottle. That is some cheap-ass wine.” If anyone knew cheap booze, it was me, and she didn’t look like she would drink anything less than twenty bucks a bottle.

She just waved her hand. “I’m just looking to be out of the house and have some fun.”

“Yeah?” That made my ears and my dick perk up. “I could show you some fun.”

“Oh, not that kind of fun. I’m engaged,” the blonde said, giving me a brilliant smile as she held out her left hand to display a rock the size of Plymouth. “I’m getting married next weekend!”

That figured. I should have known. A lot of women wanted a guy to put a ring on it. “Congratulations,” I said.

My subsequent eye roll slipped out before I meant it to happen. Not even I was usually that rude. At least not this early in the night. But marriage at our age was like setting yourself up to fail. You might as well start saving for your divorce fees on your fucking honeymoon.

She didn’t seem to notice my sarcasm.

“My sister is single though! Isn’t she cute?” She pointed to a girl who was studying the drink menu at the end of the bar.

“Her?” I asked, a little dubious.

“Uh-huh,” she said, voice falsely bright. “That’s Sophie. She’s very, very smart and OMG, so much fun!”

The blonde’s insane enthusiasm indicated that she was used to people believing her bullshit just because she was beautiful, and that she knew full well her sister wasn’t a party girl. The sister’s finger ran up and down the menu, not once, but twice, three, and then a fourth time. She glanced up, lips pursed, fingers still splayed on the menu like she didn’t want to allow herself the opportunity to study it again. There was no annoyance in her posture as she waited for the bartender to notice her.

She wasn’t noticeable though, unfortunately. Despite being attractive, she didn’t stand out, and I wasn’t exactly sure why. Not classically beautiful like her sister, but solidly cute, with a great figure, she should have commanded attention. Yet, somehow, she blended into her surroundings, no more a standout than anything on that limited and uninspired drink menu she kept scanning. After a second she realized I was watching her. I thought in the manner of a wallflower she would start and blush and look away. She didn’t. Neither did she straighten her spine and do anything flirtatious, any sort of acknowledgment of me watching her. No hair flip. No head tilt. Not even a smile.

That was not the stare of a wallflower. She was something else. The intimidator. The one who people looked at and knew they would never be on her intellectual level, so they avoided her. I wasn’t intimidated, but I was surprised. The stare was bold.

“Sophie!” the blonde called out. “Come here and meet Cain!”

I sighed, balling the cocktail napkin on the bar in front of me up into a tight wad. Some nights I wanted to be social. I craved it. The endless chatter of tourists or my buddies. Older couples who wanted to ask me about the local attractions. But today what I wanted was a woman to distract me with her lips, her hands, her lithe, eager body. I had thought the blonde might serve my purpose. Her sister? Nope. She was the first car on the train to Don’t Fuck That–Ville. The reason wasn’t because she wasn’t hot, because she was, in that tight dress, but because she was not breaking my gaze.

It was unnerving as hell, because the blonde was obviously telling the truth—the sister was smart. So smart that she saw right through me. Actually, it was more than that. It was like if I gave her the chance she would see me. The real me. And no one wanted to see that hot fucking mess. And I sure as shit didn’t want to show it to anyone.

She finally did break eye contact as she came up to us. Her nose wrinkled when she looked at her sister. “I was trying to order a drink.”

“You just have to wave to the bartender,” the blonde said, leaning forward and hooking her finger at John, who worked most nights I came in. He immediately smiled and came rushing over like a dog when it’s offered a treat. Typical. I gave him a look and snorted.

“Meet Bella,” I said to John. “She’s getting married.”

His smile faltered a little but he asked, “What can I get ya?”

“I’ll have another Jack,” I said.

“Not you, dick. The lovely Bella.”

I grinned.

“Oh, I have wine,” she said. “I don’t need another one yet.”

Of course she wouldn’t. Not only was she a wine drinker, she was a sipper, not a chugger. I could point to every person in this bar and tell you what they would drink and how fast. The guy in the suit would have a Manhattan, with zero irony for the fact that he was from Boston, and he would sling them back, sober until the fourth one, then he would careen into sloppy drunk with the speed of a bullet train. The trio of girls wearing shorts with their asses hanging out would want vodka and cranberry. They would get buzzed after two and start hugging each other. By the third, two of them would make out because they would love the attention.

Bella was a rich girl. It was written all over her. The wine was a perfect fit. Anyone local, even if I didn’t know them personally, I could spot by their clothes and demeanor. They would drink domestic beer or whiskey. The only one whose drink I couldn’t interpret was Sophie the Sister.

She didn’t seem to know either, given how long she had run her fingers over the sticky menu. “What do you want to drink?” I asked her.

“I was debating whether I want to try something new, which I will undoubtedly dislike, or go with something I know won’t make me vomit, which is light beer. But what I’m really searching for is something that will allow me to become drunk before the liver metabolizes about ninety percent of the alcohol into water and carbon dioxide. I can have one drink per hour and maintain a buzz unless I sweat a lot, which I might, because there isn’t adequate air-conditioning in here for the number of patrons. So I think light beer is out.”

I blinked.

Bella gave a nervous laugh. “Sophie’s kidding. God, she’s so funny when she’s drunk!” But then she shot her sister a very obvious warning glare.

Yep. Sophie was a fucking genius. Maybe slightly weird, but clearly no dumb brunette.

“What?” she asked Bella. “What’s wrong? And I’m not kidding. I really can’t decide what to drink. I want a buzz. That is my goal.”

Bella sighed, her shoulders slumping in defeat. I had to guess I wasn’t the first guy she had thrown in front of Sophie.

“Try a Washington Apple,” I told her. “It’s light and refreshing, yet has Canadian whiskey in it, which will most definitely get you drunk.” Aside from the way she had put it, her goal was no different than that of a lot of people who came into the bar.

Me included.

Get drunk. Forget about whatever it was that pressed on her shoulders like two meaty iron fists, weighing her down. Blue eyes in a round, perfect baby face popped into my head. Fuck. I downed my whiskey and slid it over to John. “My glass is empty, asshole.” Then I eyed Sophie. “Do you want a Washington Apple?”

“Are you buying it for me?” she asked.

Her question was so unexpected and brazen, I laughed. She didn’t look flirtatious at all, just curious.

“Sophie, oh, my God, you can’t ask that!” Bella’s cheeks went pink. “She didn’t mean that,” she said to me.

“What?” Sophie asked. “What’s wrong with asking? I didn’t want to say yes to the drink and then have it be awkward because the bartender assumes that Cain is paying and then he doesn’t want to. I was trying to prevent awkwardness.”

Funny enough, she clearly meant it. And she had a fair point. She looked annoyed that her sister had called her out. Her eyes were blinking rapidly and her chest was rising and falling, forcing her breasts to push against the tight fabric of her black dress.

“But you’re not supposed to ask someone to pay for something,” Bella insisted. “It’s rude.”

Tell that to every other girl here on a Friday night. What a load of bullshit.

“I wasn’t asking him to pay for it. I was asking if he was offering to pay for it.”

“Oh, my God,” Bella murmured again. “Come on, Soph, let’s just go.” She turned to me. “Sorry.”

Sophie’s lips twisted and I could tell she was fighting the urge to protest further. Their dynamic was fucked up. Bella was talking down to Sophie, that patronizing older sibling shit. It reminded me of what a dickhead my own brother was and how much I hated his ability to make me look like a sour asshole because I was honest and he was a fucking liar.

“No, you don’t need to leave.” I reached out and touched Sophie’s wrist when she started to pull away from the bar and follow her sister. “I asked you if you wanted a drink, so yes, I was offering to pay for it.”

For a second she studied me, her owlish dark eyes widening. I could see that she was thinking, assessing, deciding. She glanced down at my fingers on her flesh. I let go.

“Okay, then, yes, I will take a Washington Apple, thank you.”

I felt relief, which was an odd thing to feel. Mostly I felt nothing other than anger, boredom, arousal. The emotions that indicated that I might actually give a shit clawed their way to the forefront very rarely. Yet, I felt…compassion for Sophie. I didn’t want her to walk away and let her sister win. “You’re welcome. Do you want a shot or a regular drink?”

“Oh. There are options? Well…” Her head tilted.

I knew instantly a debate was coming.

“If I drink the shot it will hit my system all at once, which is a plus. But without something to sip, I’ll get thirsty and then I’ll want some water, which will counter the effect of the alcohol.”

And there it was. I just waited. She would reason it out.

“I’ll take the drink,” she concluded.

Bella looked like she wanted to die a thousand deaths. “I’m going to the restroom.” She set her wine down and pointed her finger at Sophie. “Don’t go anywhere or talk to anyone else without me.” She sashayed off, tossing her hair back, clearly irritated.

“Does your sister always treat you like you’re five?” I asked after John moved down to the bar to get our drinks.

“Yes. My social awkwardness is very upsetting to her.”

I don’t lie as a rule. But I could stretch the truth just a little for the cute brunette. “I don’t think you’re awkward at all. Tell her to suck it.” Truthfully, awkward wasn’t even the right word for it. She was just honest. Straightforward. Her thoughts came out of her mouth, and damn it, what the hell was wrong with that? Everyone I knew was a liar.

She smiled. “Bella doesn’t mean to be a bitch. She just doesn’t understand me.” John set her drink in front of her and she picked it up and studied it. “What’s in here?”

I put a hand on the stool next to me. “Do you want to sit down?” She was short and when I glanced at her feet I saw she had pink Converse on. There really was something pretty damn adorable about her.

“Do I have to sit to drink it?” she asked without any irony.

That made me laugh again. Damn. Twice in ten minutes. That was a fucking record. It sounded foreign to my ears. “No. You can drink it however you want. I just wanted to make sure you’re comfortable. That you stay awhile.”

“Oh.” She sipped the drink. “You didn’t answer my question. What’s in this?”

“Unicorn tears. Just drink it.”

The corner of her mouth turned up in a small smile. “I don’t like the unknown.”

I raised my glass. “Life is one big fucking unknown. You should get used to it.”

“Are you used to it?”

No. Fuck no. If I was, I wouldn’t be in this goddamn bar every night. “I don’t give a shit one way or the other.”

“I don’t believe you.”

I shrugged. “You don’t have to.” I gestured toward the restroom. Bella had come back out and was talking to a guy by the jukebox. “How come she’s allowed to do whatever she wants but you can’t?”

It was meant to deflect, ignite her annoyance with her sister again. But she didn’t bite.

“Of course I can do whatever I want. That’s not the point.”

“So you could leave here with me, go to a different bar?” For reasons I didn’t want to look at too deeply, I wanted to keep Sophie with me. Alone. I wanted to hear her think out loud. She was a fascinating distraction, which was rare. Nothing distracted me anymore for anything longer than a blink.

“Why would I do that? What is wrong with this bar?”

So she was literal. That was becoming obvious quickly. “There’s nothing wrong with this bar. I just want to talk to you without your sister interrupting us.”

Her head tilted and she reached up and touched her fake eyelashes like she was tempted to just rip them off. She patted them like they had spring to them. Her hands dropped. “Does that mean you want to have sex with me?”

“Uh…” I had to admit, that caught me off guard. It took a lot to throw me off, but this girl just had. “I hadn’t actually thought that far, but if you’re asking if I think you’re attractive, the answer to that is yes.”

She nodded, studying me. “Well. Then yes, I will leave with you, because I find you attractive too.”

I threw back my whiskey and stood up. “Then let’s go.”

I was pretty damn sure I’d just been outmaneuvered by Sophie. It felt like she was the one actually calling the shots and that was hot. But I wasn’t going to let that continue. Sexy little Sophie had another thing coming. I may not have control over my life, but sex? Oh, yeah. I was in charge.

“I haven’t finished my drink,” Sophie protested.

I raised her hand with the drink in it, and drank that too. A drop fell on her finger and I licked it off, quickly, a brief flicker of my tongue over her sweet flesh. “I’ll buy you a new one.”

“But I wanted that one.” She didn’t yank her hand away though. She let me lower it, along with the glass, slowly.

“Then you’ll want the next one even more.” My eyes dropped to her lips. They weren’t plump and overdone. They were just juicy and perfect, like her breasts. “I changed my mind,” I said. “I have thought that far ahead.”

Another woman would have asked what I meant. But Sophie picked the thread back up immediately. Her eyes darkened. Her mouth fell into an enticing O. I wanted to bite that lip, suck it. I wanted to kiss her and wind my fingers into her thick hair.

“I do want to have sex with you,” I said, because she had asked and why the fuck not be honest?

No one was ever honest.

Except apparently for Sophie. She nodded. “Good. Let’s go.”