The club is close by, not allotting me the time to worry about if I’m going to be the oldest person in the club or if my dress is too short, too low, or too tight.

“Is that the line?” I ask as we cross the street toward the large brick building with a neon sign over the entrance, noting the few dozen people who are lined around the corner.

“I told you this place was popular.”

I swallow my objections that include how long we’re going to be waiting to get inside and how much I don’t want to be here. Excuses to head back to her house are lining up but fall away as I consider how rarely my best friend gets out and the effort she put forth tonight. I follow her to the end of the line, shivering slightly as a cool breeze hits us like a cruel joke.

“Do you think I look all right?”

I look up from my phone, where I was checking the time and ensuring I didn’t have any new emails from Catherine, and watch Felicity tug on her close-fitting dress that reaches the top of her knees. “Are you kidding? You look amazing. Stunning, actually.”

“You’re just saying that because I’m not wearing yesterday’s pajamas and don’t smell like ketchup or chocolate sauce.” Her lips curve into a familiar smile.

“Actually, it’s because you finally brushed your hair, but…” I draw out the sentence, teasing my best friend who even with two young children still goes to the grocery store with her purse and nails matching her outfit while I change into yoga pants the moment I get home.

I grip her wrist when she starts to fidget again. “I was kidding. You look great.”

Felicity moves her attention to my eyes. “I wish I had your confidence.”

I scoff at the word. “My confidence? I thought we were here because I’m supposed to be getting back on the dating horse?”

“That has nothing to do with your confidence!”

“You’ve officially been poisoned by too many kids’ shows and huffing too many dirty diapers.”

Felicity shakes her head, laughing as she grips my arm. “Huffing?” She laughs louder. “I can’t wait to use that line on you one day.”

I return her smile, knowing she’ll likely be using it later tonight. Then, with one swift move, Felicity snatches my cell phone.

“What are you doing?” I ask. “I hate selfies.” My pronounced frown reminds her of this fact.

“Afraid to have evidence of you having fun?”

“Exactly. People might think I’m nice and try talking to me.”

Felicity closes her eyes, laughing so hard she tilts her head back. “Well, I won’t tell them if you don’t. But I’m going to store this so your crazy boss can’t ruin our night.” She tosses my phone into her purse and zips it with a quick tug.

“Is that really necessary?” I ask.

“It’s more than necessary.”

Surprisingly, our time in line passes quickly, laughing and chatting about the kids and stories of Catherine until a group of people get in line behind us who join in our conversation. There are at least twelve of them, and I’m guessing they’re barely twenty-one, but it doesn’t seem to matter as they laugh with us, the conversation light and easy.

We reach the bouncer, and he looks at us collectively, as though not recognizing the age difference between us and the group who’s joined us, and asks us for our IDs. Felicity’s face splits in half with happiness as she digs in her small purse for her license.

The music is so loud the bass pumps through me like a second heartbeat. The club is dark, illuminated with multicolored lights that stream down from the ceiling and moving patterns that distract me from the crowds. Felicity grabs my arm, holding on as we follow the group of friends through the club toward the back where there is a bar and larger dance floor.

“Let’s get a drink first,” Felicity says, shifting from following me to leading me through the throngs of people to the shiny, waxed surface of the bar. She lifts her hand, and it’s not surprising the bartender instantly notices her. Even in sweatpants, Felicity catches people’s attention.

“What can I get you ladies?” he asks, a grin teasing his lips.

Felicity leans closer, his mild flirting fueling her. “We were told you guys are known for your martinis.”

The bartender’s smile grows wider, and he leans closer. “We’re known for all sorts of things, sweetheart.”

Felicity bats her long lashes shamelessly. “Perfect. I’ll have a Park Avenue, and she’ll have a Metropolitan.”

He winks then and reaches for two glasses.

Felicity turns to me, her lips wide and pressed together. “He’s cute,” she whispers.

“He’s looking for a nice tip.”

“He was totally checking you out.”

“Likely to determine how desperate I look.”

She shakes her head, swift and firm. “You’re wrong. You have so much confidence when it comes to not caring how you look or what people think of you, yet you never realize when a guy is checking you out. How is that possible?”

“A”—I lift a finger—“you realize how many hours a week I waste straightening my hair, right?”

She laughs, dismissing my objection with another shake of her head.

“B, if I didn’t care what others thought of me, I’d stop leaving my phone on mute and maybe consider replying to some of the texts I’ve been receiving over the past several weeks.”

“You’re looking at this through a single lens, Books.”

“And C,” I continue, “the bartender wasn’t checking me out. He was checking you out.”

“I love you, but this breakup has messed with that pretty mind of yours.”

The bartender delivers our drinks with another flirtatious grin, and though our eyes lock for a brief moment, I refuse to admit he’s looking for more than a tip.

We drink them too quickly, the early hour encouraging us to seek a buzz that will not only conclude our current conversation and this long week, but begin a new page—a new start.

I slide my credit card across the bar. “Please open a tab.”

As expected, his eyes brighten, obliging instantly. “You’ve got it. What else can I get you both?”

I look to Felicity, her cheeks flushed. “Let’s go dance, first.” She reaches for me, our fingers linking as she leads us out to the dance floor, finding several from the group we spent time with while waiting in line. She tips her head back, moving her hips to the beat, allowing herself to become absorbed in the music and moment. Our hands remain joined as I work to relax and enjoy this escape from reality.

An hour later, it’s becoming a struggle to lose myself and the many thoughts and concerns that have been taxing me. The longer we dance, the more my feet hurt, and the more my feet hurt, the more I consider all the things at work that need to be done. How badly I need to impress the clients and guests lists alike to ensure I not only distract myself from how I’m currently living in my best friend’s guest room, but also from how I’ve seen Gabe three times in the time we’ve been apart and each time he’s been with her.

“I’m going to get something to drink,” I tell Felicity, squeezing her hand before releasing it. I disentangle myself from the crowds and make my way back to the bar that’s started to thin as more have gained liquid courage.

“Need a drink?” the bartender asks.

“What do you have on tap?”

He lists the titles of several beers without pause, and I order one I’ve never heard of. It’s a drink chosen to provide me with an excuse to stand at the bar and not engage in conversation.

Within moments, he delivers a filled glass, and I smile my thanks, my attention continuing to shift periodically from the crowds to where Felicity continues dancing. My fingers quickly become red and cold, gripping the frosty glass. It’s a nice contrast to the hot and stuffy club.

A man slides up to the bar beside me, a crisp, black button-down-covered shoulder successfully blocking my view of where Felicity is with our new group of friends.

“If you face me and smile like you’re glad to see me, I might be able to rescue you from that guy over there.” His voice is deep yet clear even over the noise of the club. He drops an elbow to the bar and leans forward so that his face comes into view. His hair is nearly the color of gold, neither blond nor brown, but somehow hints at being both, his eyes a startling shade of blue that distracts me from looking at him further for several seconds.

“Your deterrent isn’t working very well; he was about to come over here.” He dips his chin, nodding toward the bar, where I’m still holding the glass with both hands.

My brow furrows with confusion. “My deterrent?” I twist around, looking around the club for whatever he’s referring to.

“He’s definitely going to come over here if you’re already looking bored,” he says, a smirk pulling his lips into a crooked smile. “You’ve been holding that same drink for at least ten minutes and haven’t taken a single drink.” His eyebrows rise with question. “I’m betting you ordered it so no one would offer to buy you one.”

My mouth feels dry, my tongue swollen, and every ounce of common sense seems to drain from my open mouth before I snap my lips closed and try on a tight smile. “If I did, it’s clearly not working, is it?”

He chuckles, and the sound is a deep rumble, his shoulders falling with a sense of rapport the two of us don’t share. “We’ll have to work on your second line of defense,” he tells me. “Because by posing that challenge, men are going to either”—he holds up his index finger, watching me carefully as though to ensure I’m listening—“think you’re challenging them and therefore will likely act ridiculous all night, or”—his middle fingers joins his first—“submit you to the worst pickup lines you’ve ever heard.”

“It might be option C, which is ‘leave me alone.’”

He nods, though the movements are short and jerky before he shakes his head. “Your chances for that are very slim.” He shifts so his hip leans against the bar as he surveys the club. “In a place like this, you have to up your game.”

“Up my game?”

“You’re smirking at me!” he cries, shifting so his elbow farthest from me rests on the bar, opening his chest toward me. “You think I’m lying, don’t you?”

I shrug. “Or maybe just delusional.”

He grips his chest. “I could leave and prove you wrong.”

My eyes narrow, and my lips slip into a smile I can’t seem to stop. “Are you daring me?”

He lifts both hands, placing them in front of his chest, palms facing me. “Just listing your options.”

I glance around the crowded club again, nothing standing out throughout the dark space. “I don’t see anyone leering.”

“Watch.” He smiles blandly and turns, disappearing from the bar, confusing me. I watch him cross the room, where he stands against the wall, one hand tucked into his pocket while the other is splayed low on his chest. He dips his chin, nodding toward me.

And this is why I don’t date. Men are crazy. All of them.

I shake my head, and he nods again, a faint smile visible.

“Hi there.”

I turn back around, discovering a boy. He’s not a man. He doesn’t even look twenty-one. I look from him to the stranger in the back. Still watching me, his smile wider.

Dammit.

“Hi,” I reply, taking a drink of my beer.

“I think we met a couple of weeks ago,” he says.

“Really? Here?”

“Yeah.” His voice rises, and he grins.

“Yes. On the dance floor, right?”

“I knew you’d remember.” He slides closer to me.

“Definitely. And I’m so glad to see you again because I thought I should tell you”—I lean closer—“I’m late.”

“Sorry?”

“I’m late,” I say again.

“Late for what?”

A throat clears behind us, and we both turn, discovering the blond man from before, his hand still splayed on his chest but this time higher as he cocks his head to the side and looks at the boy standing beside me. “She tried to accuse me of being her baby’s daddy, too. Trust me, you should run.”

“Baby’s daddy?” he asks, his attention swinging from me to the stranger.

“You don’t think a couple of beers will hurt, right? I mean, it’s still early.” I clasp a hand to my stomach.

“You’re crazy!” The boy backs up, spins on a heel, and quickly vanishes into a crowd.

“That wasn’t nearly as fun or satisfying as I’d hoped,” I admit.

He laughs, resuming his initial spot beside me and flagging the bartender down. “A snakebite,” he says.

“Men aren’t easily deterred, especially not by a full drink. To some, that makes you a better target because they can be cheap.”

“How did you become such an expert?” I ask.