FLIRTING WITH 40

by K. Bromberg

  “K. Bromberg always delivers intelligently written, emotionally intense, sensual romance . . .”

  —USA Today

  “K. Bromberg makes you believe in the power of true love.”

  —#1 New York Times bestselling author Audrey Carlan

  “A poignant and hauntingly beautiful story of survival, second chances, and the healing power of love. An absolute must-read.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Helena Hunting

  “A home run! The Player is riveting, sexy, and pulsing with energy. And I can’t wait for The Catch!”

  —#1 New York Times bestselling author Lauren Blakely

  “An irresistibly hot romance that stays with you long after you finish the book.”

  —#1 New York Times bestselling author Jennifer L. Armentrout

  “Bromberg is a master at turning up the heat!”

  —New York Times bestselling author Katy Evans

  “Supercharged heat and full of heart. Bromberg aces it from the first page to the last.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Kylie Scott

  “Captivating, emotional, and sizzling hot!”

  —New York Times bestselling author S. C. Stephens

  Driven

  Fueled

  Crashed

  Raced

  Aced

  Slow Burn

  Sweet Ache

  Hard Beat

  Down Shift

  UnRaveled

  Sweet Cheeks

  Sweet Rivalry

  The Player

  The Catch

  Cuffed

  Combust

  Cockpit

  Control

  Faking It

  Resist

  Reveal

  Then You Happened

  Hard to Handle

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Copyright © 2020 by K. Bromberg

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by JKB Publishing, LLC

  ISBN: 978-1-942832-26-3

  Cover design by Helen Williams

  Cover Image by Wong Sim

  Cover Model: Amadeo Leandro

  Editing by AW Editing

  Formatting by Champagne Book Design

  TITLE PAGE

  PRAISE FOR K. BROMBERG

  ALSO WRITTEN BY K. BROMBERG

  COPYRIGHT

  EPIGRAPH

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  EPILOGUE

  EPILOGUE 2

  COMING SOON

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Everything begins and ends with the heart . . .

  Blakely

  I don’t get what the big deal is.

  Glancing around the trendy bar, which was dubbed the go-to place by all of my co-workers, I simply don’t get it.

  The atmosphere is nice if you’re into rose gold and mirrors everywhere so you can see yourself in every reflection possible, save for the bottles of alcohol lining the walls in front of me. And those bottles? The bartenders use them to pour designer cocktails for customers who view the drinks as badges of maturity. EDM music is piped softly through the speakers much like jazz in an elevator, playing background to the chatter of the mostly twenty-something crowd. They flit from table to table with loud screeches when they find their next best friend for the night. Cell phone cameras flash just as frequently as the screeches.

  You’re stepping outside your comfort zone, Blakely. Isn’t that what this is? Seeing how the other side lives so you can relate better?

  Isn’t that what Heather said? If I want to relate to my demographic, I need to understand them. Go out, visit the spaces they frequent, and become familiar with what they see as cool. She said that my ideas on this campaign felt old. Stale. As if I still thought wearing nylons was still all the rage or something.

  The bartender sets my drink on the marble bar top in front of me just as my left shoulder is bumped from someone sliding onto the stool beside me.

  “Excuse me. I’m sorry,” a deep tenor apologizes, but my irritation at having to come here is already through the roof, so I just nod without glancing his way.

  What a fucking day.

  That’s all I focus on as I lift the glass of amber liquid to my lips. I hum and welcome the burn as it slides down my throat in a useless attempt to wash away the shitty afternoon I’ve had.

  “Now that’s a drink,” the man says. “I would have pegged you for a red wine type of girl.”

  Not used to random men approaching me in bars, I open my eyes and keep them focused on where my hands are wrapped around my glass.

  There’s no way he’s talking to me.

  There just isn’t.

  “What is that? Whiskey?”

  Now I know he’s definitely talking to me. Can’t a girl sit in a bar in peace and enjoy a drink before heading home to her quiet house and empty bed?

  “Brandy then?” He keeps at it.

  Doesn’t he get the hint that I’m not interested?

  Doesn’t he get the vibe that I’m in a crappy mood, and no, I won’t go home and have a drunken one-night stand with him? No, I’m not going to stroke his ego and giggle like an airhead while flipping my hair either. I’ve been there, done that, and frankly, got screwed in the process.

  And, no, not the good kind of screwed either.

  “Rough day, then?” he continues.

  He has no idea. First it was my boss, Heather, and the digs she took at me throughout our creative brainstorming meeting earlier. Then it was the text from my ex, letting me know he’d gotten the promotion I’d spent years helping him maneuver into, and oh, she said yes. As if I wanted to know just how quickly he replaced me and threw away the s
eventeen years we had been married.

  Seven months to be exact.

  I shouldn’t care. I shouldn’t. But it was still a blow.

  “I’m sure it wasn’t that bad,” he says as if I’m actually listening. “Nothing’s ever as bad as it seems. So tell me, what it is you’re trying to drink away with a stiff one?”

  A stiff one? Jesus. Does he really get women with lines like that?

  “Sometimes it’s good to talk about it.”

  He wants to know?

  I’ll let him know.

  “And sometimes it is as bad as it seems,” I say, eyes still fixed on the drink in front of me. “I have a brand-new boss, who doesn’t know what the hell she’s doing. And it’s not just an I-need-a-few-weeks-to-remember-the-details type of incompetency. It’s more of an I-don’t-really-care-so-long-as-no-one-else-notices type of ineptness. To top it off, I swear she’s out to get rid of anyone who calls her on it. For example, me. Add to that, she’s suddenly determined to make our office feel more youthful,” I say, adding a healthy dose of sarcasm to the last word. “Then there’s the fact that I’m up for a promotion that I’m sure I won’t get despite being the most qualified person on her staff because she’s trying to make me look bad at every freaking turn. What else? My ex-husband of a whole seven months informed me today that he did, in fact, get his new promotion to partner—as if I care—and oh, newsflash, he’s engaged to a woman I’m sure is young enough to be my daughter. Add to that, my car is making some kind of ticking noise, so it’s in the shop, and I’m sure that’ll be nice and cheap . . . and the loaner car they gave me broke down on my way to work this morning. Horrible Heather wasn’t too thrilled with that excuse, so she gave me some bullshit task as punishment that wasted a whole workday. And more than anything,” I say as I turn to face him for the first time, “I hate when . . .” guys don’t get the hint that a woman just wants to be left alone.

  The thought going unspoken because, of course, the man I’m currently being a bitch to with my sarcastic, long-winded diatribe is stunningly handsome.

  Like word-forgetting, thought-voiding gorgeous.

  And young.

  Like ten years younger than I am type of young.

  But damn.

  My smile is automatic, but it’s hard to look intelligent after berating someone and then having your words fail you.

  But this is me, feeling like a fish out of water in a trendy bar I was told to stop by as a homework assignment of sorts.

  But there’s him, fitting in perfectly with the crowd and angling his gorgeous smile my way and rendering me stupid when I know I’m a strong woman. One who doesn’t get weak in the knees or fall for stupid lines.

  I’ve done that before. Look where that got me—discarded and divorced.

  But my god. I stare at him like a doe-eyed idiot, wondering how I back out of the trouble my words put me in.

  I’m a woman whose career is built on paying attention to details, and believe me, I’m noticing every single detail about him.

  The dark hair that’s a little mussed even though it’s styled. The tanned skin and broad shoulders beneath his plain black shirt. He’s casual when no one else in here is casual, and yet, he totally fits in.

  His eyes are unrelenting as they meet mine. They could be green or blue or even gray. The dim light of the bar makes it hard to decipher their color, and on the off chance that I’m coming off like a freak with a staring problem, I avert my eyes.

  Right to his hands clasped around his glass. To his whiskey. To the cuffs of his dress shirt and how they’re rolled up to reveal sculpted forearms. Major arm porn. Sexy hand porn.

  Even thinking that makes me feel old.

  Aren’t I supposed to be focusing? On this? On why I’m here? On how I was a total bitch to a guy who seems to be as nice as he looks? Instead I’m sitting here skeptical of him simply because he’s talking to me.

  Focus, Blakely.

  Easier said than done when he’s sitting beside me.

  It’s definitely been too long since a man has paid me attention.

  “You hate when, what?” he asks, pulling me back from my way-too-many thoughts about him and garnering a quick glance from me.

  Yep. He’s still there. His brows are narrowed some, and those lips of his are fighting back a smile.

  “You didn’t finish what you were saying.” He lifts a lone eyebrow.

  “Um . . . nothing. Never mind. I didn’t mean—I thought you were someone else.” I shake my head and wish I had five more of these drinks or a hole to climb into. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. It’s good to get it out sometimes.”

  I slide another glance at him, trying to figure out why, in a bar full of attractive, obviously available women, he’s talking to me. “I think I got enough out. Again, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be a bitch—”

  “Yes, you did.” My eyes whip over to him and catch the dimples that accompany his devastating grin as he turns on his stool to face me. “And I get it. You’re in a bar. You either want to be left the hell alone, or you’re waiting for someone else and don’t want them to think you’re chatting it up with some incredibly handsome man such as myself.” He winks, and I hate that I’m charmed by it.

  By him.

  I laugh and shake my head. I can’t help that I do, but the man beside me is the last thing, person—whatever—in the world I expected to find when I took a seat at this bar. “I’m not waiting for anyone,” I say and return his smile.

  Was that a flirt?

  Did I actually just flirt with this guy who is definitely younger than I am and is positively more handsome than my ex, Paul, when everyone thinks Paul is the bee’s knees.

  Bee’s knees?

  Jesus. Definitely don’t say that aloud.

  “Tell me about her.”

  “About who?”

  Why is he still talking to me?

  “Your boss.”

  He’s just being nice.

  “My boss?”

  Or lost.

  “Yes. Horrible Heather I believe is what you called her. You said you were up for a promotion, but you don’t fit the mold or something to that effect. What do you do?”

  Or anything other than the type of guy he’s coming off as because nice guys don’t talk to women like me.

  Or rather, from what I’ve learned after half-heartedly entering the dating pool again, nice, young, attractive guys like him don’t talk to divorcées who are knocking on forty.

  I stare at him, blinking for a few seconds as my thoughts run wild. “I’m in advertising. I work for a cosmetics company.”

  “Which one?”

  “Glam.”

  “Nice.” He draws the word out with a nod while he takes a sip of his drink. I don’t think Paul bothered to remember what company I worked for most days. “And your boss. This Heather. She’s new?”

  “By a few months. Yes.”

  He rests his hand on the back of my chair in a casual pose, his fingers slightly touching my back.

  “What’s the promotion?”

  “Vice president of marketing,” I muse.

  “Big time.” He raises his eyebrows and glances down the bar where a gorgeous brunette meets his eyes for a beat before he looks back my way unfazed. “Why do you think you won’t get the promotion?”

  I part snort, part laugh. “Because she’s determined to bring a new, youthful vibe to the office. Easy for her, not so easy for me.”

  “And how exactly does one make their employees have a youthful vibe and more importantly, how is she qualified to be the judge of that?”

  “The youthful vibe will be demonstrated at the upcoming company retreat in the mountains where we’re to experience team bonding at its finest so that we leave feeling like a family.” I emphasize the last sentence in a singsong voice. “And she designated herself queen ruler of youthfulness.”

  “Oh. One of those.” He snorts.

  “Exactly.” Why does it feel so good to
have someone seem to genuinely understand?

  “Do you have something against the mountains?” he asks, his eyes alight with humor.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you said the word mountains with a healthy dose of disdain.”

  “I did, didn’t I? I’m a city girl, so unless being in the mountains involves sitting on a porch swing sipping wine, then it holds no appeal to me.”

  “You’re missing out big time.” He gives a subtle shake of his head as the bartender slides fresh drinks in front of us. “But what does not liking the mountains have to do with hating your boss? Is it simply because she’s making you go on the group bonding session?”

  “I can stomach the team bonding because it’s my job, and I think it’s best I form closer connections with my coworkers. It’s more that I think she’d love nothing more than if I didn’t show up. She’d have a perfectly good reason to say I’m not a team player and make sure the world knows so it would be a ding against my possible promotion evaluation.”

  “So, you’re going then, right?”

  What does he care?

  It doesn’t matter because it feels good to talk to someone who actually listens.

  “It’s a catch-22. I miss the event and validate what they think of me—that I’m the matron of the group who’s no fun—or I actually go and look like the matron of the group who doesn’t have a significant other so I’m singled out without a partner in all the activities. I don’t know, I get the feeling that my being over the cute late-twenties, let’s-go-and-get-wasted vibe is a detriment in her eyes.”

  “And that’s why you don’t like her? Because she’s younger?” He angles his head to the side and doesn’t back down on his stare.

  Of course, I just probably described him.

  And then offended him.

  That hole I’m digging keeps getting deeper and deeper.

  “No. Yes. I mean . . . no.”

  “That’s more than clear.” He laughs and holds out a hand to me. “Slade Henderson. Younger than you. Has an affinity for the mountains, the outdoors, and can tolerate team bonding even if I don’t always play by the rules. I’m also amused by long diatribes that I have to decipher from the random, beautiful woman sitting beside me in the bar.”