FLIRTING WITH 40

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.