“So, you told your wingman about me?” Sara said, taking a sip of her drink.

“I may have mentioned you. In passing.”

“In passing?”

“You can’t blame me—no one can meet the Sara and not mention it.”

She laughed. “We definitely met, didn’t we?”

“I was trying not to think about it too much, but yeah. That was a fantastic...meeting. Maybe we could meet again sometime.” I tried to keep it light, especially after her earlier run-in with her ex or whoever Cal was, but she’d started it.

“I don’t know. I mean, usually, subsequent meetings aren’t as…mutually beneficial as the first.”

We edged forward, toward each other under the guise of needing to hear one another over the noise of the place.

“Normally, I’d agree with you. But in our case, I really think any future meetings we have would be highly beneficial to both of us.”

She hid her smile by taking a long sip of her drink. “Are you really confident you can provide me with any and all goods and services I need, Declan?”

“I would be more than happy to service you in any way I can, Sara.”

I also needed to change the subject because this one was literally becoming painful. The harder my cock got, the more I regretted trusting the saleswoman who’d talked me into these jeans. Regardless of how good she thought my ass looked in them, I really should’ve gone with my gut and bought the ones with a roomier fit.

More importantly, all I really knew about Sara was external—she was amazing in bed and had a body I’d happily explore for the next couple of weeks—so I’d be stupid not to use this time to get to know the rest of her. But I had to move slowly so I didn’t scare her off again.

The night we met, she’d told me she grew up in the city and worked in an office downtown. Work seemed like a bland enough place to start.

“Do you meet a lot of people at work?” I asked.

She gasped.

“Oh shit! I didn’t mean it that way. I meant the ‘Hi, my name is’ kind of meet…in real life, at your job. It just sounded like you might…” I don’t think I’d ever failed at anything so epically before. “You’re good with people. I just thought you probably worked with…people,” I muttered. “Sorry, that came out totally wrong.”

Smiling, she put her hand on my arm. “It’s okay. It only took me about ten seconds of seeing your expression to figure out you weren’t calling me a hooker. You must be a shitty poker player.”

“Hurtful but true.” I pantomimed wiping sweat off my brow. “I need to clarify something you just said, though. You’re right—I would never call a woman a hooker. ‘Escort’ is a lot classier.” Turning my embarrassment into a joke had been a risk, but better she be laughing than walking away. And thankfully, she got it.

A minute later, she stopped laughing but kept smiling as she took a deep breath.

“I’ve been called a lot of things, but you’re the first man who’s ever told me if I were a sex worker I’d be the classy kind. I mean, wow. Am I blushing?” She waved her hand as if it were a fan.

“You’re amazing,” I said.

“Anyway…” She rolled her eyes and pretended to shove me away. “To answer your horribly worded question…no, I don’t meet a lot of people at work. In fact, it’s only me and my boss in the office. I answer phones and do general office crap for my friend’s virtual assistant company.”

“Huh,” I said as gratefully as possible. “Interesting.”

“It’s not. It’s actually really boring. I used to be one of the virtual assistants. That was interesting. Kind of fun, even. But…” She tilted her head side to side as if to weigh her wording. “I had a run-in with a client, and not in a good way. So, until I prove I won’t make that mistake again I get to sit in an office and be bored. But whatever pays the rent, you know?”

I’d been nodding along the whole time. I’d also been studying her face and how she held herself. She’d told me more in the last two minutes than in the entire night we’d been together.

“That was a long and confusing answer, wasn’t it? So, Declan, what pays your rent?”

I swallowed. The question wasn’t unexpected—after all, I’d asked her. But I didn’t want to tell her about my job. In the past few years, I’d gotten one of two reactions from women. Either they wanted to be with me because I was famous enough for them to already know what I did, or as soon as they found out, they assumed I had no interests other than partying, womanizing, and anything else that fit into the stereotype of a musician.

I didn’t want Sara to judge me for what I did. I wanted her to judge me for who I was. If she hated me then, fine. I just wanted the chance to get to know one another slowly, naturally, and in a real way.

Granted, our relationship had started, literally speaking, below the belt, which might not be the best way two people who could actually like each other should meet. But who could say for sure how it would turn out? Hell, even if it didn’t work out like I hoped it would, it was refreshing to talk to someone who didn’t want to talk about the band. Especially someone I was interested in.

I couldn’t stomach one more question about what it was like to tour, how much money we made, or if I ever got nervous before a show. I liked not having to lie or watch a woman’s smile disappear when I told her the truth about my life: I’d rather be at home with my dog. Or that most of the time the band made just enough to cover expenses and bar tabs. And the reason I didn’t get nervous before a show was because it wasn’t really me who walked onto the stage—it was a guy who’d been manufactured by agents and stylists to appeal to a wide audience.

So, what should I tell Sara? “What pays my rent?” I repeated. “You may need another drink before you hear the bad news.” When I caught the bartender’s eye, I motioned to her empty glass and then to mine.

“Actually...” she said, shaking her head at the bartender. Then she pointed to my glass and put up two fingers. “It’s hard enough to behave myself around you sober. Who knows what would happen after a few more drinks?”

I pressed my lips together before I said something like ‘Let’s find out’ and ordered her a few more drinks.

There was nothing sexy about a woman deciding to sleep with you only after she got a good buzz going. Just like there was something incredibly sexy about a woman switching to a non-alcoholic drink because she wasn’t sure she could trust herself around you.

“I’m a writer.”

“In the music industry?” she asked.

Fuck. So, she already knew. “How did you—?”

“The card you gave me. It was an agent or manager or something, right? Doug somebody?”

Oh, right. “I wrote my number on Doug’s business card, didn’t I? Doug’s a…” So many different words I could use to describe him, none of which she needed to know. She’d never be within forty feet of him if I could help it. “Doug manages up-and-coming bands. He’s always terrified he’ll be caught without a fancy business card when he wants to impress a woman. So, the way I figure it, deliberately making him run out of them helps him overcome his fear.”

“Sounds like you’re helping all the women he meets, too.”

Smiling, I nodded. “It’s my small way of apologizing on behalf of my entire gender.”

“Apology accepted, but only for you. Unless you’re about to tell me that when not protecting women from managers or assholes in dark alleys, you write magazine articles about why women should be seen and not heard, or how old white guys should be allowed to define what equality means.”

“I thought about the magazine thing. But then I found out that women were only getting an average of 19.5 cent less per dollar than men. For the same job. It seemed so unfair to the men, you know?” I couldn’t believe I was able to get that all out with a straight face. “I don’t know how those old white guys can look us poor bastards in the eyes after letting us down like that.”

“Wow. Only 19.5 cents less a dollar? That’s crazy.” She slid her empty glass away from her. “By the way, remind me to never make fun of your poker face again.”

It almost slipped. “My face and I would be happy to do that. Thanks.” With perfect timing, the bartender brought our drinks over.

She thanked him and then thanked me as I handed him some cash.

Since I hoped this conversation would be continuing for a while, I picked up both of our glasses. “I’m tired of yelling over all the noise. Can we go somewhere a little quieter?”

She paused and stared at me for a moment.

“Come on. I haven’t finished telling you what I do for a living yet. I’d hate for you to walk out of here thinking I’m the unclassy kind of sex worker or something.”

She looked at me silently before eventually nodding. “But just for minute. Then I should find my friend.”

“If a minute is all you’ll give me, a minute is what I’ll take.”

I shouldn’t have picked up our drinks, then I would’ve had a free hand to grab hers as I made a path through the crowd. I suppressed a shudder when I felt her finger hook through one of the belt loops of my jeans. That connection made me smile and let me know she was following close behind, her smaller steps creating tiny, bouncing tugs on my pants.

My first thought was to go outside, where the air was fresh and quiet, but I didn’t want her to be thinking about Cal while she was with me. What I’d really like to have done is to set our drinks down and invite her back to my place. But I already knew what her answer would’ve been.

So, I led her toward the only other place I could think of—a hallway just around the corner from a room I’d spotted when the band had played here. Supposedly, they opened up the room to use as a coat check-in closet in the winter. The rest of the time, it was used for storage. Unfortunately, the room itself would be locked, but just beyond it was the hallway to the owner’s office and, from what I’d seen, no one but the staff ever got close. Not sure what that said about the friendliness of the owner, but having a little privacy with Sara was worth the risk of getting shit for being here.

I stopped and turned to hand her drink to her, regretting the move as soon as she let go of my jeans.

“Wow, it’s so romantic,” she joked, peering down the hallway.

I opened my mouth to tell her how happy I’d be to take her somewhere romantic, but nothing made it out. It was bizarre not knowing what a woman wanted from me. The ones I’d met over the last year or so had made it pretty clear—in one way or another, it was always about the band. Another reason why this woman was so different.

Sara took a sip of ginger ale. “Alright, I let you bring me someplace a bit quieter. So, now I think I deserve the truth, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” I mumbled.

“So, Declan, tell me: Are you really a writer? Or did I get a freebie from a very talented male prostitute last weekend?” She held up her finger before I could answer. “That last part was payback for the ten seconds you made me think you were calling me a whore.”

“I’m really a writer.” Technically, that was true. It just wasn’t everything. In a perfect world, I’d spend every day with nothing but my guitar, a notepad, and my dog, knowing I was in control of my own music. And I wouldn’t have to do it knowing my songs were going to be completely redesigned into Self Defense’s current goal of mass market appeal.

“The ‘freebie’ you got last weekend was me doing my best to convince you to come back for more. Except now you have to pay for it with conversations and the occasional dinner out.” Then I quickly added, “My treat, of course.”

She dropped her head forward a little to hide her face and let me worry about what she was thinking.

“What do you write?” she asked casually, as if she hadn’t heard my last comment. “Anything I might know?”

“I would be shocked stupid if you did.” At least in the form I’d originally written them. Besides me, very few people ever heard my songs before they were redesigned for the band—Self Defense’s drummer, Sam, our guitarist, Pete, Trevor, and Ed, a DJ friend who’d lent us his home studio to record before we could afford to rent a professional setup.

“I bet you make shocked stupid look good.”

“I’d take that bet.” I leaned against the wall, thinking about what to tell her. “Sadly, I spend more time in clubs, listening to music and meeting people than I do writing these days.” Not a single lie had come out of my mouth.

Unless you considered leaving the most important bits out lying. Like I did.