There’s literally no reason for him to pick me out of this bar ... but he did. And he isn’t looking at any other woman, his eyes are on me. Well, his hand’s on me, too. It starts on my knee, but after the second shot of tequila, my hand is resting on his shoulder, and then he leans in closer, close enough to kiss.

I pull away, abruptly. Not because I don’t want this.

I do want this. Need it, even.

But I don’t want to kiss anyone in public. Not when the entire town knows about Luke.

No. I want to kiss Ansel. I want his hands to crawl up my bare back. I want him to lay me on his bed and remind me that I am more than a mother or a sister or a widow. I want to be reminded that I’m a woman, and he’s the perfect man to jog my memory.

“So what do you do?” I ask, trying to get a feel for this guy beyond his sexy appearance.

He shrugs. “I’m a writer.”

This piques my interest. I’ve been a book lover all my life. “Really? Would I recognize anything you’ve written?”

He looks at me a beat too long, as if deciding what to reveal. “Probably not, I hate talking about my work anyways. I mean, it’s a good gig, I get to make my own schedule, work where I want, how I want, but it’s still a job.”

“I get it. I love what I do, but at the end of the day, it’s work.” Still wanting to dig deeper I ask, “So if you had a month off of work, where you could do literally anything you wanted, the sky is the limit, what would you pick?"

He runs a hand over his beard. “Easy. I’d rent a little cabin on a lake somewhere, alone, with a stack of books. I’d read in a hammock, drink jugs of cheap wine, and take out a canoe every afternoon.”

I groan. “Oh my god, that sounds amazing. And no Netflix or email--just quiet.”

He smiles. “Exactly. And I’d throw my smart phone in the lake the moment I arrived.”

I laugh in agreement. “Right? I hate my damn phone. I can’t stand in line at the grocery store without checking Facebook.” Lowering my voice I add, “I’d say I need a twelve step program to kick my habit--but what I really need is someone to pry the device from my fingers and refuse to give it back.”

“You’re not alone in that,” he says. “It’s a blessing and a curse, technology. Texting alone is changing our culture.”

Thinking about my kids, I couldn’t agree more. “And what worries me is the next generation, you know, who won’t know what it’s like to actually speak on the telephone.” But then I shake my head bashfully. “Though, I’m all talk. I love emoji’s.” Raising my hands in defense, I add, “There, I said it. I’m a sucker for a heart-eyed smiley face.”

“Me too. Sometimes a monkey covering his eyes really says it all.”

I lean back, grinning. He smiles as he laughs and I can’t help but enjoy the fact we have a lot in common. “Well, I’m glad to know we relate on an emoji level.”

“And a dream vacation level, too,” he adds

I nod slowly, biting my bottom lip, wanting to be assertive and honest. “Yeah, except you said you wanted to be all alone in your cabin. I think I’d like company.”

He raises a brow. “I mean, I’m not opposed to company--it would just have to be the right person.”

“And what would this person be like?” I ask.

“They’d have to understand that interrupting someone when they’re reading is never a good idea.”

I shake a finger having something to add. “Yes, and the person would have to realize that when someone says they’re taking a nap, that they literally want to sleep.”

He laughs. “So you’re not a snuggler?”

Thinking about how many nights I’ve shared my bed with my kiddos, I reconsider my stance. “Okay, I can snuggle as long as everyone knows sleeping is the main objective.”

“I see,” he says slowly. “So you aren’t into middle of the afternoon spooning that leads to sex?”

Heat rises up my neck, burning my cheeks. “Now I sound like a prude. I meant I just really appreciate sleep.”

“Good, because if I were to share this lake house with someone, I’d need to them to be interested in sex in the canoe and sex in the hammock and sex--“

I cut him off, cracking up. “Hammock sex just sounds awkward.”

“True. Then where would you want to get frisky at this cabin?”

“At this hypothetical cabin, right?”

“Right.”

I shrug. “Uh, maybe in the woods? On a soft wool blanket, under the stars? Too cheesy?”

He shakes his head, and rests his hand on my knee, leaning close. “Not cheesy, pretty damn perfect.”

My heart is racing with anticipation as I realize how badly I want this night to be something different.

“Let’s get out of here,” I whisper. “Take me to your place.”

Maybe it’s too fast--to meet a man and let him take me back to his hotel room, but for me, it isn’t fast at all. I’ve been waiting years for this moment, the moment where I felt ready to try again.

“I was hoping you’d say that, Greta.” He looks at me with the tiniest hint of a smile playing on his lips. His dark brown eyes melt the icing that frosts my heart.

He closes the tab and walks me out of the wine bar, taking my hand in his. I swallow hard, grateful he can’t see me. Truth is, a man hasn’t held my hand like this in so long. I don’t realize, until Ansel’s soft fingers lace with mine, how badly I’ve missed it.

He looks back at me, concern in his eyes. “You okay?”

I nod, because I am okay. I’m more than okay. I’m taking the leap that’s terrified me for so long. And Mags was right--I am scared of getting hurt--but a guy like Ansel won’t hurt me. He’s all smiles and laughs and flirting and fun. He’s the opposite of stoic Luke in every way--and for that I’m grateful.

This is different. This is what I need.

“So I know you aren’t from Linesworth either, but I think the rental is this way, on Sixth Street,” he says, pointing left.

I purse my lips, as we begin walking.

Sixth Street is definitely to our right.

But I don’t say anything, because ... well, Mags said to role-play, to pretend I am an out-of-towner looking for meaningless sex.

She didn’t say the meaningless sex part, but that’s what this is. A one-night stand with a regulation hottie.

Okay, I need to get a grip because no one uses phrases like ‘regulation hottie’ when describing a grown-up man with muscles that would make Thor feel inferior.

I realize, that we’ve gone in a circle right about the time Ansel does. Maybe he should have left some breadcrumbs to lead him home after all.

“Why don’t we try the other direction this time?” I suggest as he wraps an arm around my shoulder.

We cross the street and he immediately recognizes where he is. “The house across the street is the rental,” he says, pointing to Lindy Lancaster’s winter rental. I don’t mention that I’ve been in book club with Lindy for the past two years or that I helped her tile the back splash in the kitchen before she listed it on Air BnB this past fall. Instead, I let him lead me inside, playing the part of a girl on vaycay.

Not the mom whose own home is one block away.

“Good, the guys are in bed,” Ansel says, locking the door. “Great place, right?”

I nod looking around Lindy’s home with fresh eyes. It’s designed with an IKEA budget, and it looks cute and modern.

“So, would you like something to drink?” Ansel asks, walking to the galley kitchen in the back of the house.

I shake my head. “I shouldn’t--tequila is only good in moderation.”

He pours us glasses of water and hands me one. “And are you all about doing things in moderation?”

I lean against the kitchen counter, trying to remember what people in movies do when they go to a guy’s house after picking them up in a bar. Luke and I were high school sweethearts--—adult dating is all new territory for me.

“Probably,” I admit. “I’m not a risk taker, usually. Or that adventurous. Steady, reliable--that’s how my sister would describe me.”

“A woman being reliable isn’t a bad thing. I think it’s pretty sexy.”

I twist my lips. “You’re crazy. Guys like women who are spontaneous, not practical.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t need spontaneity, but if you’re looking for some, why don’t you come skiing with us one day this week. How long are you in town?”

“Oh, I don’t ski, or go on the mountain at all. Ever.” I worry about the tightness in my voice, but Ansel doesn’t seem to notice.

“Really?” He looks at me like I’m crazy. “It’s so fun though.”

“And dangerous.”

He nods. “I get it, my mom is scared of heights, too.”

I don’t correct him. It’s not the heights that scare me ... it’s the memories.

“Anyways,” I say, wanting to change the subject. “I’m usually risk-averse, but tonight....”

Ansel steps toward me, wrapping an arm around my waist. “Tonight you’re throwing caution to the wind. Taking a chance with an old guy like me.”

I throw back my head. “Old? Come on. You’re crazy.” I stop laughing and take a hard look at him.

He’s so close to me, and his hips press against my own. “Well, I’m an old soul, that’s what I mean.”

“How old are you anyways?”

“Twenty-six.”

I grimace, running a hand through my hair, thinking about my kids and mortgage, feeling a decade older than I am. “I’m twenty-seven. Scared of an older woman?”

“Not in the least,” he says leaning closer. “There’s a lot about me you don’t know,” he says.

“Likewise,” I admit.

“But I’d like to find out,” he says, his hands move under my sweater, warm hands against my cool back. Sending shivers over my skin.

“Me too,” I murmur, closing my eyes and letting his touch envelop me.

It’s been so long. Years. I want to be felt and held and kissed and touched. I want to be seen.

Even if just for one night.

“I’m going to kiss you now, Greta,” he tells me.

It’s like he understands that I need to hear these words to prepare myself for the moment another man’s lips press against mine.

I nod, ever so slightly, lifting my chin, and offering myself to Ansel.

He may be charming and effortless but he is also soft and smooth and when he pulls my mouth to his, I sink into the kiss. I sink into him.