FLIRTING WITH 40

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