by Katy Regnery
“Ummm...” I glance at Brandy, who’s pulling a pint of beer for a guy at the end of the bar. “Why would she mind?”
“Because you’re...” She looks at Brandy, then back at me. “I mean, from the way you...I just assumed...”
My eyes widen. “You thought Brandy and I were together?”
“Yeah.” She nods. “I do—um, I did?”
I laugh for a second, looking over my shoulder at a young, handsome waiter who exits the kitchen with a tray full of food. I gesture to him with my chin.
“See him?”
She twists in her chair, straining to take a look. Her sweater rides up a touch, and I get my first peek at her backside, which—I’m very happy to share—is small, rounded, and pert in tight denim.
“Uh-huh.”
“That’s Denny. Brandy’s boyfriend.”
“Ohhh.” She turns back to me, her eyes wide. “So you’re just...”
“A friend.”
“A friend,” scoffs Brandy, who’s suddenly appeared across from us again. “He put me through school.”
The woman’s eyes slide to Brandy, then back to me. “You did?”
“He did.” Brandy flattens her hands on the bar. “I was a loser kid at Lathrop High when Mr. Bigshot came to speak to the senior class about starting his own business. Said if I was serious about going to bartending school in Anchorage, he’d set me up in a hotel for two weeks, give me an allowance, and pay my way. At first, I thought he was a freak, you know? Offering me money for favors I’d trade later. But nope. T just wanted to help. Got me a room at the Ramada, paid for my classes, and put in a good word with Ping to help me get this job. No favors on the side required. Just a really cool dude.”
She raises her fist to me, and I bump it before she saunters away to help another patron.
“You paid for her education?” asks the woman, leaning closer to me.
I shrug. “She needed help. A lot of the native kids don’t come from much.”
“Wow.” She smiles at me as she reaches for the lowball glass full of my vodka. “I really admire that.”
Clinking my glass with hers, I pause a second, watching her sip because it’s a beautiful fucking thing to watch a woman who knows what she’s doing. Especially when it’s my vodka she’s tasting. She sips a small amount, letting it slide over her tongue as she breathes through her nose. Her eyes flutter closed for a moment, and her lips tilt up with approval before she nods, straightening up to look at me.
As for me? That semi in my pants is quickly becoming a full-blown hard-on. Because if that preorgasmic sip of my vodka wasn’t the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen, I don’t know what is.
“Delicious,” she hums, her voice low and silky.
“Who are you?” I whisper.
“Faye,” she says, holding out her hand. “And you’re...T, the bigshot potato farmer.”
I could correct her slightly erroneous description of me—I’m actually Trevor, the bigshot distillery owner—but I don’t feel like giving her my résumé. I don’t want to risk changing the vibe of our conversation if she finds out the vodka she loves is one of mine. Besides, I grew up on a working potato farm. It’s not really a lie, and if it is, it’s little and white.
I take her small, freckled hand in mine, clasping the delicate bones as I stare into her eyes. “Nice to meet you, Faye.”
“Nice to meet you, T.”
I pump her hand for a second or two, then let go. But only because it would be creepy if I held onto her any longer.
“You’re from out of town,” I say.
“Mm-hm.”
“Why are you here?”
She chuckles softly. “Can’t a girl spend Christmas in the North Pole?”
“Sure,” I murmur, wishing she was spending Christmas on my pole instead. “No family?”
Shit. As soon as the words come out of my mouth, I wish I could take them back. A shadow passes over her face, and she finishes off her martini in a way that feels driven by emotion, not pleasure.
“Not today,” she finally whispers, sliding the martini glass back toward Brandy and pulling the lowball glass forward. She looks up at me. “You?”
“Not from out of town,” I say.
“Family?”
I lean closer to her, borrowing her own words. “Not today.”
“Two foundlings all alone at the holidays,” she observes. “Whatever shall we do?”
Hmm. If that’s a come-on, I’m game.
I don’t want to get involved with her, of course, but we both appear to be available. She could be the perfect person with whom to spend the next few days before I hook up with Faith Crawford over New Year’s. I’m a free agent, right? I don’t owe any woman anything. I can do what I want to, and if that includes fucking a beautiful librarian in North Pole for three days before fucking a beautiful sailor in Fairbanks the following weekend, more power to me.
“Faye,” I say, “—after you finish your drink, of course—would you like to get out of here?”
She stares at me for a long second. “No thank you.”
Cue the sound effect of a needle skipping over a record.
“Wait. What?” I feel my brows furrow. I think I’m frowning at her. “Did you say no?”
“I can’t,” she says.
“What do you mean you can’t?”
Am I pouting? I think I might be.
“I have plans...” she says, looking away from me.
Is it my imagination, or does she seem the slightest bit sorry that she has plans?
“Tonight?”
“Not exactly, but...”
She clears her throat, like she’s not sure what else to say.
“Some plans were made to be broken,” I say, trying to keep my voice light.
She shakes her head then adds, “It’s complicated.”
“It always is,” I say, adjusting on my seat and telling my dick that it appears he’s going to have to wait for some action...not that it helps. He wants what he wants, and what he wants is her.
“So that’s it?” I ask her.
“No.” Her shoulders hug her ears in a brief shrug, and she gives me a little smile. “It doesn’t have to be.”
“What does that mean?”
“When you suggested we ‘get out of here,’ you were suggesting we have sex, right?”
My cheeks flush because she says this so matter-of-factly, and it embarrasses me that I made such a bold suggestion to a woman I barely know. But she’s calling me out, and I’m not a coward, so despite my shame, I nod.
“I can’t have sex with you,” she says. “But...”
“But what?”
“Well...we could have some dinner...and talk about the world’s best vodkas over decent-smelling Chinese food,” she suggests, gesturing to an open table in the back restaurant, and then looking back at me with hope in her eyes.
“Why?”
“Because we’re human beings,” she says softly, “alone at Christmastime. And I think we both deserve better than that.”
There’s something about her honesty that tugs at my heartstrings that makes me want to rescue both of us from a night of loneliness, but Marlena’s face flashes through my mind, and I put a swift end to those thoughts. I don’t want a friend. I don’t want a relationship. I want no depth, no connection, no nothing.
And something about Faye already feels deeper and more connected to me than it should. I’m feeling something just talking to her, and I don’t want to. In fact, if I’m honest in a way that aches, it scares me that I could develop feelings—any feelings—for another woman. I need to stay cold. Cool. Emotionless. I need to protect myself.
So if a little fun in the form of meaningless sex isn’t in the cards...I guess it’s time to go.
I pick up my drink, finish it, then replace the glass on the bar with a dull clunk. Sliding off the barstool, I take a one-hundred-dollar bill from my wallet and put it under my cocktail napkin.Then I turn to Faye.
&
nbsp; “Enjoy your drink. I’m going to head out.”
“Wait. You mean—oh.” Her face falls. “You’re leaving.”
“Afraid so.”
Though I wish it didn’t, the disappointment in her eyes twists my heart.
“Really?”
Hurt joins disappointment and I waver, but my still-broken heart cautions me: Stay cool, Trevor. Stay cold.
“Really,” I say as nonchalantly as I can manage. “Nothing left to stay for.”
“Oh.” She blinks rapidly, then clenches her jaw and lifts her chin. “Okay.”
“You have a good night,” I say lightly, forcing my feet to move away from her toward the exit and trying to convince myself as I go that it’s for the best.
Chapter 4
Faye
The abruptness with which T leaves me is strangely and unexpectedly devastating—like a surprise smack across the face that whips your neck back and leaves an angry red mark on your cheek.
It stings.
As he saunters away, I find myself in unfamiliar territory, blinking my eyes furiously, embarrassed and confused, desperately willing myself not to cry. But today has been full of disappointments, and I just don’t have much morale left.
Not to mention, I feel stupid. So stupid.
And since it’s an unusual feeling for me, I don’t have the tools to deal with it, which makes me feel even more off-balance.
The reality is that I’m not experienced with men. I’m not a good judge of them on a personal level (clearly). I would have sworn on a stack of Bibles that T and I were connecting, but obviously we weren’t. That exciting feeling that we “got” each other was me misreading the situation like some starry-eyed teenager. It’s a reminder that I’m woefully lacking in any fragment of adult female intuition, a realization that makes me feel deeply ashamed.
It also hurts my feelings that his only interest in me was physical. The rest of it—the conversation, the banter, the smiles and flirtation—was all a play to get into my pants. I had been building meaning into our exchange, when he only saw me as a piece of ass.
It all feels...dreadful.
I scramble for my purse, eager to pay up my tab and run back to my motel, but I’m so flustered it takes a moment for me to realize my tab is all paid for. Placing my hand flat on the bar to steady myself as I slide off my barstool, I’m surprised when it’s suddenly covered by another.
“It’s not you. It’s him.”
I look up into Brandy’s face, then flick my eyes to where her hand is gently holding the back of mine.
“S-Sorry?”
“It’s not you. It’s him.” She squeezes lightly, then pulls her hand away. “He got worked over by his fiancée a few months ago. It left him...bitter.”
“Worked over?”
“Yeah. Um...you know what?” She glances at the clock sitting over the Buddha’s head. “I have a thirty-minute break coming up. Wanna grab something to eat? It tastes as good as it smells. I promise.”
Split between a desire to run back to cry myself to sleep or to mollify my hurt feelings by learning more about T’s sordid past, my curiosity—and hunger—win out.
“Are you sure?” I ask her, assuming she has better things to do on Christmas Eve than share dinner with a total stranger.
“Positive. I’m starving.”
“Well, in that case, it’s my treat,” I tell her.
“Ooh! Even better!” Brandy grins at me, then calls to her fellow bartender. “Jim, I’m taking my thirty.”
“No way! It’s busy here, Brandy!”
“Then work harder, Jim!” she bellows back, untying her white apron and placing it under the register before exiting the bar through a hinged counter.
I eye the drink T bought me but decide I need to find a new favorite vodka, and I leave it on the bar unfinished, following Brandy to an open booth in the back of the restaurant. We sit down on red leather bench seats across from each other, and she hands me a menu.
“Mind if I get the Mongolian beef?” she asks. “It’s epic.”
“How about this?” I slide the menu back to her. “You order for us.”
“Really? Yeah. Sure!” She grins. “Are you hungry?”
“Famished.”
The waiter T pointed out to me before comes over to our table and leans down to kiss Brandy on the cheek before offering me his hand.
“I’m Denny.”
“Faye.”
“Saw you over at the bar talking to T.”
Brandy clears her throat. “He’s being an asshole tonight.”
“What else is new?” asks Denny.
“Cut it out,” says Brandy, eyeing her boyfriend sharply. “Give him a break, huh? He’s not like that. Not really. He’s a good guy going through a rough time.”
“Whatever you say, babe.” He shrugs, taking his notepad out of his white apron and looking at me. “What’cha having?”
“Faye’s having a scorpion bowl to start,” says Brandy.
“Which one?”
“North Pole Paradise.”
I clear my throat. “What is a scor—”
Brandy hushes me with a flick of her hand, then continues: “I’ll have a Sapporo. Then bring us the crab rangoon and ahi tuna, followed by the Mongolian beef and velvet shrimp.”
Denny grimaces. “Babe, rent’s due on—”
“Faye’s treating.”
He brightens instantly. “Oh! Awesome. Cool. Anything else?”
“A shot of tequila,” I say.
“Bring her a shot of 1800 Silver,” says Brandy.
“Salt?” he asks. “Lemon?”
Brandy slides her eyes to me, and after a beat, we both giggle.
“Fuck, Brandy,” gripes Denny. “You could just say no. You don’t have to laugh at me.”
“Don’t be so sensitive,” she says. “You know the rule: when it comes to shots, take ’em neat. Don’t dilute and don’t pollute.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he says, rolling his eyes as he gathers our menus and heads to the bar and kitchen to place our orders.
I watch her watch him go, taking in the soft look on her otherwise hard face. When she turns back to me, I’m smile at her.
“You love him,” I say.
“I do, but he’s an idiot.”
“Is he?”
She shrugs. “Sorta. But he loves me back and lets me be in charge.”
“Is that important to you? To be in charge in a relationship?” I pause for a second. “I always thought women wanted to be taken care of.”
“Ha!” she scoffs. “‘Taken care of’ is great as long as you have the littlest, tiniest bit of an upper hand. Put it this way: always make sure your man loves you just a little more than you love him.” She holds up her hand leaving a hair’s width of space between her thumb and index finger. “Just a tiny bit. Just enough to know that you’re safe.”
“Safe?”
“If you’re more important to him than he is to you—even if it’s only by a miniscule amount—you won’t have to worry about him cheating or leaving you or being mean. When you’ve got your period and you’re acting like a bitch, he’ll cut you a break. When you get fat from having babies, he’ll still think you’re beautiful. Only stay with a guy who’s crazy about you.” She takes a gulp of water and shrugs. “Anyway, that’s the advice my mother gave me, and she and my dad have been together for a hundred years.”
I fold my hands together and stare at her in wonder.
“How old are you?” I ask.
“Twenty-one.” Her phone is sitting on the table and buzzes. “Do you mind if I take this? It’s my dad.”
“Go ahead.”
She presses the phone to her ear. “Seya?”
She continues to speak in a language unknown to me while I busy myself with placing a napkin on my lap and take a moment to marvel about how self-assured Brandy is in her personal life and how knowledgeable she is about men.
At twenty-one years old, she seems to have the oppo
site sex all figured out. And here I am, almost a decade older, and I can’t get through a conversation with a random man at a bar without getting my feelings hurt.
How did that happen?
I prop my elbow on the table and lean my cheek on my knuckles.
Maybe I was just a “late bloomer,” more interested in academics than boys for most of my formative years. I never had a “boy crazy” phase like many of my peers. I barely noted the opposite sex as different, actually, except to observe that they were sometimes given unfair advantages in sports, which grated on my refined sense of justice and equality.
During high school and college, I was so focused on my course of study and grades, I made no room in my life for boys. Why? They simply weren’t a priority. I spent every waking hour studying at the library or shutting down at the computer lab. And by the time I entered grad school, I was grieving my lost parents, trying to maintain my perfect GPA and make important decisions about my little sister’s future. After grad school, I took the reins of my father’s business in hand and worked as hard at keeping Findley Imports above water as I had at keeping my grades straight As.
To my immense pleasure, I succeeded. I worked my ass off and made Findley Imports one of the largest and most profitable private spirit importation companies in the United States.
Except...
Now that I find myself with a successful company and space in my life for a meaningful relationship, I don’t know how to find one. I have friends, but I’m lonely for someone special. I want a husband and children someday. I just don’t know how to navigate my way through meeting someone, let alone through courtship and love. Hand me a spreadsheet or a marketing plan, and I’m a whiz. Sit me down at the bar beside an attraction, intelligent man, and I’m a dodo.
At some point, I’ll need to figure out how an accomplished businesswoman goes about meeting the love of her life, but there is one thing I want to take care of first:
My virginity.
I want to get rid of it.
(I am literally dying to get rid of it.)
I don’t want to be a virgin anymore.
Since answering Mr. Fairbanks’ ad two weeks ago and receiving an answer last week informing me that I was his chosen New Year’s date, I’ve avoided the topic of my virginity with myself, though it circles in my mind like a vulture circling fresh kill.
