She spent the rest of the night hiding in a bathroom stall, making calls to whomever she thought would be awake and nearby. It wasn’t a big enough deal to pull someone out of bed for. And she wasn’t about to call every single name on her list just because she was stranded at a bar with a lurking ex-boyfriend. She could handle him, if she had to. She just didn’t want to. She’d done enough of that in the few years that they were a couple. Handling, humoring, persevering, denying. What a joke.

Laurel gave up after six unanswered calls and a flurry of texts, emerging from the stall and walking straight to the mirror, checking her face. Her makeup. Mascara still intact. Good. He’d made enough of that run in their days. Now that they had split up, she resolved herself to end that. Especially the finality of today’s last visit to their house. If she could go her entire life without ever crying about Jason . . .

Alright. She straightened up her clothes, her hair—combing it out of her face—and then walked out, back into the music-filled bar. A swing band had taken the stage since Jason’s ungracious exit. A big brassy ensemble playing Glen Miller tunes. Count Basie. The Duke. By the time she left the bathroom, they were onto a few slower numbers. A ballad with a sad, crooning female vocalist. A song about a dead lover. It matched her mood perfectly.

She scanned the crowd for any sign of Jason, and when she couldn’t find any, she set out straight for the bar. She wasn’t drunk enough to deal with Jason’s latest dose of drama, accusations that she was trying to manipulate some agreement with the landlord about the deposit money. She also wasn’t drunk enough to handle the horrific thoughts of him waiting outside the bar for her.

His argument, at least what she deciphered from his slurred speech, was half-true. It was true that she had forgotten to sign a release waiver, but it wasn’t out of malice. She hadn’t intended on taking the money. She just had a little more going on in her life than Jason—including a job where she actually had to use her brain—and the paperwork of their dissolved relationship wasn’t exactly a priority.

As long as Jason behaved himself and left her alone, it would be an easy fix. She would get in touch with the landlord tomorrow and straighten it all out. She would have to do that some time in the middle of a busy work day, which included an early morning presentation.

Fuck, she hated giving speeches. It was another item in the long list of things she’d rather forget about. Onto her third—or was it her fouth?—drink, she’d already decided that doing extra work tonight was not in her or her company’s best interests. So now she felt free to drink away the memories of an abusive asshole ex-boyfriend. She carried this out by holding out a twenty-dollar bill like a flag at the bar, and then ordering another drink, or rather, two. This time it was a shot of vodka and a beer. She’d had enough of the sweet minty taste of her juleps. It was time to simplify.

She downed her shot with a wince, and then a shudder as the hot liquid burned through her. The burn slowly turned into a pleasant numbness, and immediately it felt as if she’d constructed a thin buffer between herself and the rest of the world. A little, warm, cottony blanket in which she could hide under for just a little while.

Laurel grabbed her beer. It seemed like a bad idea to remain at the bar, like an open invitation for both present and future ex-boyfriends. She didn’t need that hassle, particularly the makings of any future problems. Work had kept her busy enough. Another blanket to hide under, the professional aspirations of an independent career woman. It was something Mama could never understand.

She walked over to an empty table, feeling a little unsteady. The comfort blanket had felt heavier as the straight alcohol began taking its effect. She sat at the table and pulled out her phone. No one had responded to her carefully veiled pleas for help.

Re-reading her text, it was admittedly vague. She didn’t want to come right out and say that she was being stalked by her ex. Should she? Maybe she should just come out with it. PLEASE RESCUE ME AT WHITBY’S.

She dropped her phone on the table in disgust. She wasn’t some victim in need of rescuing. Even earlier, with the musclehead hero at the bar. It was a nice gesture, but Laurel had everything under control. She was used to dealing with Jason alone.

Her eyes had drifted over to the dance floor in front of the stage, watching the dark silhouettes gliding around rhythmically to an up-tempo song. It brought back memories of dance lessons, with him, their weekly sessions at the community center. It was how they first started dating, when things were still new and fresh and good.

Somewhere in one of the garbage bags in her mother’s garage was one half of a matching swing dance outfit. She’d probably never wear that again. Might has well let the moths have their way with it.

Laurel was still watching the dancers when the familiar, large shape of her hero came into view. He had his jacket off and she could see the firmness of his body, his muscled torso faintly visible through a thin dress shirt. He moved so well for someone of that size. Like a bodybuilder with the gracefulness of a gymnast. He was dancing, and dancing well, with a blonde girl who was struggling to keep pace in her high heels. Struggling also, to dance at all. But he seemed much more comfortable, an effortless grace with the music. When the song ended, she was in a rush to leave the stage. She was probably wasn’t familiar with any type of dancing that didn’t involve twerking.

Laurel watched him close out the song and then step off the stage with a bashful smile. He was walking in hard athletic strides over to her table. They didn’t seem like a couple, since he didn’t seem to give her a second look. Off they went in opposite directions.

He wiped his brow and saw her. And then gave a little nod.

“Nice moves,” she said.

“What?” He came closer.

“I said nice moves. You dance pretty well for a musclehead.”

“Thank you?” he laughed. “I’m not sure if that’s a compliment.”

“It’s a compliment.”

“Your friend never came back, huh?”

“He’s not my friend.”

“Good.”

“And no, he’s been gone.”

He nodded. “Want something from the bar?”

The sight of him breaking a sweat out on the dance floor, those sexy moves of his, had made her thirsty. “Whatever you’re having.”

“You sure?” he asked.

“Just nothing minty.”

“What?” he seemed to not understand. And she felt a little drunk. Maybe it wasn’t such a great idea to a have whatever he was having. And to have it with a stranger, despite how nice he’d been to her. Didn’t they always start out that way?

“I’ll be right back,” he said, disappearing through the crowd toward the bar.

She looked down at empty glass and then checked her phone again. Still no calls or texts. It was well past midnight and she was well on her way to a hangover the next morning.

Shit . . . That presentation. She was scheduled to give a talk about Sentry’s encryption for AIDA’s email servers. And somewhere during her visit, she was supposed to find out as much as she could about Abe Hudson’s insinuations about their corruption. Though what could she really glean from talking to people in a conference room? Maybe she could talk to their in-house cybersecurity people. Maybe she should just go home right now. Forget the next drink. Forget the cute swing dancer.

But he came back to her table sooner than she’d expected, her handsome hero. Maybe it was the effect of her beer goggles, her sudden attraction to him. But it hardly mattered. At this point she was running on a lack of sleep and an excess of emotion. And about four drinks too many. It hardly mattered at all when he asked if he could sit, and she, against her better judgment, said yes.

“I thought you forgot about me,” he said, sliding a beer over to her.

“Why?”

“I was trying to get your attention the whole night.”

She decided against telling him the truth, that she’d only ignored him because she was sober enough to know it was the right move. Now that she’d had her drinks, it wasn’t so easy and logical to ignore his good looks and that sexy smile of his.

“You got my attention earlier with that idiot,” she said. “Thanks again, by the way.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Jealous ex, you know how it is.”

“Jealous?” he smiled. “I guess I better be careful, then.”

“He’s the one who should be careful. You’re twice the size of him.” She tried to stop staring at his pecs. “Where’d you learn to swing dance?”

“High school. I had a big crush on an actress. We were in a musical together.”

“Which one? Swing?”

He nodded a little shamefully.

“What’s wrong? Didn’t go over so well?”

“Well, I learned how to dance. And also how to scare off a crush.”

Laurel tried to picture him twenty years younger, and skinnier. And most likely a whole lot more awkward. “Did she friend zone you?”

“Yeah, I don’t know. I think she thought I was gay.”

She laughed. “Well, at least you can dance. And I was watching the way some of the ladies here were staring. I bet they weren’t thinking you’re gay. Or at least hoping you weren’t.”

“That girl I was dancing with didn’t seem so impressed.”

“Do you know her?”

“No.”

“Were you trying to pick her up?”

He looked embarrassed, like he’d been caught. “No.”

“Good,” she said. “You can do better than her.”

“Oh, can I?”

She hid her smile behind a sip of beer.

He was nodding. “Well, good to know.” He looked back at the stage when the band hit a busy, noisy tune. And then turned back to her. “Shall we?”

His boyish smile was irresistible. She wanted to dance, but she felt too heavy for it. Through all the alcohol and the stress of the day, it just seemed impossible to muster up the energy.

“Not in the mood, huh?”

She shrugged. “Yeah. So where are you from?”

“Atlanta.”

She laughed. “You don’t sound like it.”

“Fine. I’m from Washington D.C.”

“Vacation?”

“Sort of.”

“Don’t want to talk about it?” Immediately her thoughts raced to how he was lying, how he was a married man on an escape from his wife. Maybe it was a work trip, him trying to have some fun in the South.

“I’m trying not to think about work right now,” he said.

“You mean your wife?”

His mouth dropped open. “What?”

She took a sip.

“You see a ring on this finger?”

“I don’t know, maybe I’m just a little drunk and crazy. I’ve just had some bad experiences.”

“Well, you shouldn’t let those creep into new and possibly good experiences.”

“Yeah, maybe. I guess I just have a few traumatic memories.”

“Good thing I was here to stop any further damage.”

She raised her glass to him. “Good thing.”

“Yep” he smiled.

“We’ll see about that.”

His smile disappeared. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I dunno . . . Thanks for the drink. What’s your name again?”

“Matt. Yours?”

“Laurel.”

“Like Laurel and Hardy?”

“No.”

She looked behind them to the stage, where the band began playing another slow ballad. The vocalist had returned, and with it, her golden syrupy vocals. An old jazz standard, Embraceable You. Slower, softer, more her speed.

“Good song,” he said.

“So, Matt . . . You still wanna dance?”