4
Evangeline
"Another," I push the empty shot glass toward the bartender. He fills it up again. As soon as it's brimming, I toss it back.
The tequila sends a warm trail down my throat, spreading heat through my body. This is my second shot, and already my head feels light, like I'm floating. It's not a bad sensation for someone who should have been a married woman by now. I glance at my bare left ring finger. Lawrence left me. It's a relief, but now I'll have to find a new place to live, away from our flat. I stiffen. Oh my god. How did I forget about that?
Lawrence insisted on paying the rent for our place. Initially, I resisted, but he argued that he didn't have family responsibilities like mine—no father or sister to support. So, eventually, I relented. I took over the grocery and utility bills, allowing me to save money for my dad's medical expenses.
Now, I'm back to square one. I'll likely have to move back into the cramped apartment with my three former roommates—if it's even available. Even if it is, there won't be space for Elizabeth to stay on weekends. Plus, I'll need to cover rent wherever I go next. Oh my god. How am I going to manage all this? And on top of it all, I'm the woman who was left standing at the altar. My heart races. I down the tequila and slam the shot glass onto the counter.
No matter how much you plan, life has a way of showing you that some things are beyond your control. I thought I was making a wise decision by accepting Lawrence’s proposal, but it turns out I was mistaken. I grip the edge of the bar counter tightly.
I had convinced myself that the romantic love described by my favorite poets was only fiction. My focus was on supporting my father’s medical expenses and paying for my sister’s education, which meant working long hours to make ends meet. I didn’t have time to meet men, especially not ones who could sweep me off my feet. But don’t I deserve to experience the kind of passion those poems describe? Am I not worthy of a love as profound and overwhelming as Pablo Neruda wrote about? I resisted believing in it, but now I see that I do.
I gulp down another shot of tequila and shake my head in disbelief at myself. My sister has a point—I should be more spontaneous. But is being spontaneous enough to consider marrying a stranger? And can I dare to hope that his proposal was sincere? Am I ready to believe that a man who proposed to me unexpectedly will sweep me off my feet and give me the chance to feel like the heroine of my own love story?
How can I even consider a future with someone I've never met before, especially when he's my ex's father? What kind of madness is it that I'm thinking about him instead of the ex who abandoned me?
I push aside the train of my wedding dress. I had hopped into the car parked outside—the one I had rented and driven over in haste, still adorned with the "Just Married" sign that Stan had slapped on, which I didn't bother to remove. Thankfully, my purse was in the glove compartment, and the car was unlocked with the key fob inside, so I made a quick getaway.
I drove aimlessly until the tears threatening to spill over forced me to stop. Determined not to cry, I found a neighborhood pub nearby and pulled over. It's not far from the church, maybe twenty minutes away, but far enough that I won't be easily found. I stormed inside.
It's still early evening, and the place is fairly quiet. I glared at a couple who stared at me in disbelief until they turned away. Then, I fixed my gaze on a man with a half-full beer in front of him at another table. He hurriedly took a sip and looked away. After that, I ignored them all and marched up to the bar. I plopped down on a barstool and ordered a tequila.
Now, the bartender refills my glass once more.
I stare at the golden liquid swirling in the shot glass. The dim light catches glimmers at the bottom, reminiscent of sparks I once saw in his blue eyes. I shake my head. I should ignore that. I should be thinking about my almost-husband, not his attractive-as-hell father.
Ugh, scratch that. Not attractive-as-hell. But the fact that I’m lusting after my ex’s father? It’s enough to make me want to drown myself in alcohol.
I toss back the shot and slam the glass on the counter. “Another one, please,” I say to the bartender.
He gives me a sympathetic smile as he pours more Jose Cuervo into my glass. “Everything alright?”
I scoff. “Well, except for the fact that I’ve discovered I have a thing for silver foxes—specifically one silver fox—and maybe I’ve got some unresolved Daddy issues, everything’s just peachy.”
I down the tequila and set the glass down with a thud, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.
“On top of that, he’s thrown me into a situation that feels impossible but might actually solve all my problems.” I slump my shoulders. “And I’m also trying to forget the fact that his son left me at the altar.”
“Oh?” The bartender raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued.
“As they say, one in four Americans overshare on social media and then regret it,” I reply dryly.
“Is that so?” He chuckles in surprise.
"It is," I chuckle slightly. "And before you wonder how I know that, my brain just remembers these things automatically. Weird, right?" I shrug. "Kids in high school found it strange too. Moving to the UK from the States when I was five didn’t help. I got teased a lot, which turned me into an introvert. Despite trying to fit in, I still have my American accent." I frown. "But it doesn’t bother me now. Having bills to pay changes your priorities. And, well, tequila makes it easy to spill out your thoughts."
"I’m sorry high school was tough for you. High school can be the worst, right?" The bartender laughs, then gestures towards the bottle of Jose. "For that, you deserve a free drink, but… I think you’ve had enough."
"Aww." I pout. "Please? I really need to forget this awful day, you know?"
He hesitates.
"Pretty please?" I flutter my eyelashes at him. Anything to forget this ache in my chest. Anything to forget those blue eyes with sparks in them. Anything to forget I almost said yes to a handsome stranger who could have swept me off to his place and had his way with me. "Please?" I ruin the effect with a hiccup.
The bartender sighs. "Alright, one last one, and then I’m calling you a cab." He pours another shot into my glass.
I reach for it, but someone else snatches it away.
"You’ve had enough," a deep voice growls.
I turn to find Quincy sliding onto the stool next to me. The breadth of his shoulders, the way he blocks out the sight of everything else, the way his gaze sears me, sends a burst of heat up my spine. My thighs clench. My panties dampen. My nipples harden into bullets of need that take aim at him. It’s as if I manifested him from my thoughts.
Our gazes meet, and it’s as if I’ve been hit in the chest with a bolt of lightning. My heart slams into my ribcage. My breath hitches. Then he smirks, and indignation follows on the heels of the heavy lust that's stuck its claws into me. What is he doing here? How dare he follow me here? Can I not wallow in self-pity for a few seconds without this tall, dark, sexy stranger, once again, sweeping into my life like he owns it? I need to take back control.
"Give me that." I reach for the shot glass he’s holding, but I lose my balance and stumble into him. My hand lands on his arm—his incredibly strong, firm arm that feels like hitting the side of a building. Except this building is covered in warm muscles that ripple and seem to hum with energy underneath.
Oh wait, that’s me. That’s the zip of sensations running up my arm, to my heart, and down to my core. My chest hurts. My belly quivers. The bud between my pussy lips threatens to bloom.
Nope. Not happening. Not now. Not after how he embarrassed me in front of everyone.
I push away from him and right myself on my stool. "Give me. My. Drink," I choke out.
"Not happening." There’s a finality in his voice, a resoluteness that slices through the thoughts in my head. It pushes something in me to bend and obey, a-n-d…
"No way," I state firmly, turning to the bartender with a scowl. "Another drink, please."
"You're not getting another drink," my ex's father declares, pulling out his wallet and placing some bills on the counter.
The bartender looks surprised, glancing between Quincy and me before understanding dawns on him. He quickly gathers up the money.
"Hey!" I protest, trying to get his attention, but he moves away before I can say anything more.
Fine, I'll help myself then. I reach over to grab the bottle of Jose Cuervo from under the counter, but Quincy snatches it away before I can.
"Give me that!" I reach for the bottle, but he holds it out of my reach.
"You're leaving," he insists.
"No, I'm not," I argue back.
“Yes, you are,” he says in a slow, patient voice that brooks no argument, but which also makes me feel like I'm younger than him. And I am younger than him. In comparison to his age and experience, I'm a novice. Damn him for highlighting our age gap.
For bringing home that he's the father of my now-ex, and it’s a pipe dream to think we could ever have anything when it's forbidden and all wrong.
“You can’t tell me what to do,” I seethe.
"Sure I can." He nods slowly.
Anger suffuses my guts, floods my chest, fills my blood, and spurts out through the pores of my skin. "Who do you think you are?" I snarl.
"Your future husband.”