FLIRTING WITH 40

by K. Bromberg

  Slade.

  His name is Slade.

  Isn’t that so damn typical of a twenty-something-year-old? To have a name that proves his mom tried too hard to make him unique in that cute, I’m-an-awesome-mom kind of way?

  She is probably a Pinterest perfectionist who always brings the right dessert to a party, makes crafty homemade gifts that everyone coos over, and who never loses her temper at her kids.

  And then there’s me. Not a mom because I was too focused on work and then, once I was ready to have kids, Paul told me it would cramp the lifestyle we had built. And Pinterest? Let’s just say I’m the queen of failing anything I’ve attempted. So much so that I’ve given up even trying.

  My inadequacies in the stereotypical female department are shining bright.

  Only in my own head of course.

  Wait? Did he just call me beautiful?

  “And you are?” Slade asks.

  “Blakely.” I roll my eyes playfully but reach my hand out to shake his. “I’m Blakely Foxx. Older than you, thankful you are being nice to me instead of asking for me to be removed from the premises—”

  “You say that like a woman who’s been removed before.”

  “—and obviously having a shitty day.”

  “You forgot the part about having an absolute dick of an ex-husband.”

  I just look at him and shake my head as I chuckle. “Sorry. TMI.”

  “No, really,” he says, “it’ll make you feel better to say it and get it out in the open.”

  I eye him and wonder what the catch is. Is this some television show with a hidden camera and I’m the unsuspecting person being pranked?

  When he nods in encouragement, I chuckle and look at my glass as if I can’t believe I’m really going to. “Fine. He’s an absolute dick of an ex-husband.”

  “See?” He nudges me. “Feels better, doesn’t it?”

  I laugh. “Yes. Sure.”

  “C’mon. You know it does.”

  He’s right. It does. Even if it’s catty and childish, it does.

  “So, tell me something, Blakely, do you have something against youthful vibes?” he asks innocently enough, and for the briefest of seconds, I forget that’s the term I used—youthful vibes—and almost choke on my drink.

  “No. It’s more than that. It’s hard to explain.” I think back to the meeting I had this afternoon. How Heather shot down every one of my ideas—calling them dated despite their high-performance track record, while touting ideas that any high school student could think up as brilliant when the younger members of the team proposed them. Her disapproving looks and loud sighs every time I gave input tell me my concerns are warranted. She looks at me and sees a dinosaur she wants extinct.

  “Do you like your job?”

  “What?” I ask.

  “Do you like it? Are you good at it?” There’s a nonchalance to the way he asks that doesn’t put me on the defensive like it may have had if my boss asked me that same question.

  “I’m damn good at it. It’s my passion.”

  He purses his lips and nods. “Then what’s the problem?”

  “The problem is I’ve worked my ass off for almost twenty years to be where I am. I started with Glam when they were nothing and helped them grow to be the well-known brand they are today. And when other, bigger companies, tried to woo me away, I didn’t stray. I’m a hard worker. I contribute. I deserve my position and the promotion . . .”

  “But?” he prompts.

  I hesitate because he doesn’t know me from Eve, and I’m definitely not his type, but what does it hurt to use the ear someone offers?

  “I’m petrified of losing my position because I’m not who they—who Heather—wants me to be.”

  “And who do they want you to be?”

  “Hipper. Trendier. Without baggage.” I take a sip of my whiskey. “Whatever it is, I know I’m not it . . .”

  He doesn’t respond, and when I glance his way, his lips are pursed and he’s nodding ever so subtly. He slides those mysterious colored eyes my way. “Know or feel?”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “Feeling is something that is fed by insecurities, knowing is something that is backed by facts.”

  “Aren’t we full of wisdom?” I say and earn an adorable shrug and a lift of one of his eyebrows.

  “It’s a rarity, but it peeks its head up every once in a while.” He looks to his left where someone has slid beside him and then turns back to me. “How is it you know Heather wants you gone?”

  “It’s present here and there. It’s in how she talks to all of us in the meetings. The new people she’s brought on.” I chuckle, but it’s more to myself than him. “They hear how long I’ve been there, and instead of thinking wow, she has a breadth of knowledge that we can benefit from, they think, wow, she’s so old she can’t possibly know what’s trending now.” I add a smile to hide my defensiveness and pretend that I’m not bothered by it, but I’m not fooling anyone.

  “You’re assuming though. There’s no way for you to know what they’re thinking.” He shrugs as if telling me my insecurity is what’s fueling my opinions is something I shouldn’t be offended by. “Flip it around. You think they’re judging you, but maybe you look at them as teenagers with acne and braces and judge them for not being old enough instead of giving them the benefit of the doubt that they’re qualified. It’s all a matter of perspective.”

  “I can’t hide my age.” I snort, the effects of the whiskey starting to kick in and relaxing me a bit.

  “I wouldn’t say that,” he murmurs and has no shame as his eyes stroll lazily up and down the length of my body. They stutter over my legs, which are crossed at the knee, and take in my nude heels before they crawl their way back up to meet my eyes.

  I can’t recall the last time I was objectified so blatantly. I open my mouth to say something—to object out of principle—but why ruin the moment when I’m silently pumping my fist?

  When the heat that’s left in the wake of his gaze is still warming my skin.

  Then reality hits me.

  Slade, with his perfectly trendy name and the sexy arm porn, is only doing this to throw a middle-aged woman like me a bone because he’s gay.

  He has to be.

  It would be a detriment to women everywhere if I was right, but why else would he be sitting in a bar like this on a Thursday night talking to me when he could be hitting on the gorgeous brunette a few seats down who keeps eyeing him.

  No longer flustered by his too-long stare, I turn the conversation to him. “What about you, Slade? Why are you here tonight? Killing time until your girlfriend gets off work?”

  The roll of his eyes and lightning flash of his grin shouldn’t affect me the way they do, but they do.

  “More like avoiding my mom who’s visiting from out of town and who is currently invading my house.” He tips his drink back and emits an audible sigh.

  “That bad?”

  “Ever had a meddling Italian mother who asks too many questions, berates you because all the women you’ve dated aren’t good enough, and blames you for her not having any grandchildren when she has three other children who are just as capable?”

  He isn’t gay.

  “Can’t say that I have.” I smile in sympathy.

  “If you’d love to experience it, be my guest. She’s probably making some kind of incredible dinner to lower your defenses and win you over before she goes for the jugular,” he says and laughs.

  “At least she feeds you before unleashing her full-fledged mother guilt on you.”

  “True.” The ice in his glass clinks as he swirls his tumbler, eyes focused on it. “But it’s been quite the adjustment having her stay with me for a bit.”

  “Cramping your style.”

  “Something like that,” he murmurs and then looks my way again. “Why here?”

  “Why where?” I ask.

  “This bar of all bars. I’ve never seen you in here before.”


  “You frequent it often?” I ask, which earns a low rumble of a laugh from him.

  “Now and then when I’m not working, but you . . . you don’t seem like someone who cares about hitting the trendy spots to be seen.”

  “What do I seem like?” I ask and then wish I could take the words back because I fear the answer.

  His eyes sparkle as they shamelessly take me in, and I want to squirm under their scrutiny. “Cautious but curious. Beautiful but doesn’t acknowledge it. Here but not sure why. And definitely interested in the man she’s talking to but isn’t exactly sure how to let him know. But those are just observations. Give me a bit, and I’ll let you know if I’m right or not.”

  Oh. Okay. Um . . . thoughts. String them together. I know I’m out of touch with this dating, flirting, whatever this is type of thing, but I shouldn’t be this addled.

  Usually, if a guy fed me lines like that, I’d tell him he was trying too hard and it would never work . . . but there is something about Slade—the candid, unassuming way that he delivers the lines—that makes me blush instead of cringe.

  “So . . .” He lets the word float between us until I meet his eyes. “Why here?”

  “I could ask you the same thing. Why here? Are you here to be seen at the trendy spot?”

  He chuckles. “I couldn’t give a rat’s ass about being trendy. I’m meeting a friend in a bit and decided to stop in and have a drink beforehand. What about you? Why here?”

  “I don’t know,” I murmur, knowing I can’t exactly explain I’m here for reconnaissance so I can understand someone his age. “I’ve heard a buzz about it, so after the day I had . . . I thought, why not?”

  “Well, I am glad that, for whatever reason, you stopped in here tonight.”

  Our eyes hold, that smile of his unwavering as my cheeks flush with heat. I do my best to push away all of my insecurities threatening to derail my thoughts.

  I jump when the cell phone on the bar top between us rings. Slade groans when he picks it up and sees the number on the screen.

  “Excuse me a second. I’ve been waiting for this call. Do you mind?”

  “No. Of course not,” I say as he slides from his barstool.

  “Another round, please,” he says to the bartender before he steps away and puts the phone to his ear. “Hello? Hi. Yes . . .” His voice is drowned out by the chatter of the bar, but I continue to watch him as he meanders through the tables and closer to the exit.

  He’s taller than I thought, and I take the moment to admire him and his nice ass. The women who notice him don’t do it because his laugh is ringing out. They’re watching him because he’s all around hot.

  He runs a hand through his hair as he laughs again, and just before he heads out the side door of the bar onto the patio, he looks back at me and flashes a grin.

  “Well, I am glad that, for whatever reason it was, you stopped in here tonight.”

  His words replay in my head and inflate my ego more than it’s been boosted in what feels like forever. I’m not ashamed to admit it feels good.

  And I do believe he was flirting with me.

  Me.

  A thirty-nine-year-old divorcée who usually goes straight home after work and has her bra off and threaded through one sleeve before the door to her house even shuts behind her.

  And I didn’t panic.

  Well, I did. I mean I’m doing it right now since I have a minute to, but this is all uncharted territory to me. I can’t remember the last time I flirted with someone.

  Is this real?

  Do I want it to be real?

  Of course, I do. Even if I’m nowhere near interested, what does it hurt to have a handsome man make me feel desired and good about myself?

  I smooth my hands down my dress and shake my head. I’m just going to go with it and have a little fun flirting back. What’ll it cost me?

  With a sip of my drink and a glance over to the door Slade disappeared through, I nod, and realize this is what life after divorce feels like. Muddling my way through and taking the little victories as they come. Trying to gain confidence by scraping together the bright spots in my day. Trying to remember the woman I was—the one I want to be—after letting Paul get the best of me for so many years.

  “Excuse me.”

  “I’m sorry. This seat’s taken,” I say to the gorgeous brunette who has been eyeing Slade since he sat.

  “Oh. I know. I just . . .”

  “Yes?” I ask as she shifts and plays with the business card in her hand.

  “I’m shy . . . and don’t want to be too forward, but I was wondering if you could give your son my phone number?” She holds the business card out to me and gives me what I think is a shy smile but is probably a you-are-out-of-your-league type of smile. “I don’t have the guts to give it to him myself, but he’s really cute.”

  Cue my rapid blinking and the opening and closing of my mouth as if I’m a guppy out of water while I register what she’s saying, while I let the weight of her request hit me.

  “My son?” I laugh, my brows narrowing and my head shaking in disbelief.

  “Yes. I just assumed since he was talking to you, and you—”

  “He isn’t my—”

  “Oh my god.” Her face goes blank and jaw falls slack. “I’m so sorry.” She takes a step back, her card still firmly between my fingers. “I just assumed because he’s my age and you look like you’re my mom’s age that—”

  “You should probably stop talking and walk away,” I murmur as I turn my back to her and face the bar.

  His mom?

  Jesus.

  Do I look that old?

  I gulp down the rest of my whiskey as the panic I was fighting back earlier—the good kind of panic because an attractive man was talking to me—morphs into the kind of anxiety that has me wondering what in the hell was I thinking?

  Do I look that desperate?

  “Christ, Blake,” I mutter as I rise from my stool, flustered and suddenly dying to get out of here before I make more of an ass out of myself than I already have.

  There’s no way Slade is interested in a woman like me.

  I push some cash across the bar to pay for the drinks.

  He has to be waiting for someone.

  Then I slide her business card under his drink for him.

  Or maybe he has mommy issues.

  I glance over my shoulder to where he went one more time, and then I walk out of the bar.

  Is it a coward move?

  Hell, yes.

  But what am I doing thinking a young guy like him would actually be flirting with an older woman like me?

  Slade

  I stare at the business card in my hand. The one with the name Hillary on it and tattered edges from where I’ve toyed with its corners while listening to my team’s bullshit rambling.

  One had a crazy lady who refused to keep her gown on.

  Another got to scrub-in on a heart transplant.

  A third got into a tiff with an attending and was put on a genital warts case as retribution.

  They are all gripes that come with the territory but are things I miss dearly and can’t wait to get back to.

  “What’s up, Henderson? You off in la-la land?”

  “Nah. Sorry,” I say as four pairs of eyes turn my way and I drop the useless card into Leigh’s empty water glass, letting the ice cubes darken its edges. “Just thinking how much I miss this”—I flick my hand to the people sitting around the table—“but don’t miss the lack of sleep that comes with it.”

  “Fucker,” John mutters but smiles.

  “You missed our last bonfire,” Leigh says. “For a man who has nothing to do, you sure seem busy.”

  I smile and shrug, too damn stubborn to admit it was too hard to hang with them. Sure, they’re my best friends, but being with them also reminds me of what I’m missing. “My mom’s been in town.”

  “Ohhhh,” John says. “Nothing like a little nagging from Momma Henderson to make you an
tisocial. She still on you about dating all the wrong women? About needing grandchildren?”

  “Something like that.” I push the business card farther down into the glass.

  “You’ll be at the next one though?” Sarah asks.

  “Sure. Yeah.”

  “By the way you keep looking at that card, it must be important,” Prisha says and nudges me.

  “No. Yes. Not anymore.” I half laugh.

  “A woman?” Her smile is wide, and her eyes glint with amusement.

  “It’s always a woman when it comes to Henderson,” John says with a quick smirk and a shake of his head.

  My mind flashes back to last night. To the green eyes peppered with temper and a full mouth not afraid to speak her mind. To a pair of sexy heels and long legs that I’m sure were even more impressive when she stood. To a woman who was stunning in a classic, sophisticated way that intrigued me. She was confidence laced with insecurity, defiance edged by doubt, and a captivating nature that shined through every so often when she let her guard down and forgot she was supposed to be angry.

  “A woman? What woman?” Leigh adds.

  “You actually have time to have a healthy relationship and then you went and turned down whatever offer came with that card?” Prisha asks. “Or did you get stood up?”

  “My man here does not get stood up,” John says, having my back, in a conversation about me they obviously are fine having completely without my participation. “We all know better than that.”

  “That’s what it is, isn’t it?” Prisha asks, but before I can respond, she turns to the rest of our friends. “He was stood up.”

  “Definitely,” Leigh chimes in as if I’m not sitting between them. “He never sulks and he’s definitely sulking.”

  “Since when do I get dumped?” I say and throw my hands up with a shrug, but the phone call I made earlier proved I’d been wrong-numbered.

  “Hello?” the female voice came through the line as I looked around the diner, waiting for everyone to show up.

  “Hi. I’m not sure who I should be asking for.” I chuckled. “You said your name was Blakely, but your card says it’s Hillary. Was this one of those situations where you gave me the wrong name until you were sure you actually liked me?”