Trillion(76)

“You love it though, right?” he asks. “It was worth it?”

I nod. “I do love it.”

Whether it was worth fast-tracking is another thing. If I could go back and do it differently, if I could slow down and spend more time with my sister before her unexpected passing, I’d do it in a heartbeat.

He covers my hand with his palm for half of a second before waving to the bartender. “Your drink is low.”

“No, no. I’m good,” I say, shaking my head at the bartender to cancel the order. “I’m going to head out soon.”

The man checks his watch—a reflective silver piece with an oversized bezel and a simple, classic face—before wrinkling his nose. “It’s only nine-thirty …”

For a second, I imagine his wife gifting him with that timepiece on their first anniversary. Or the day of his first big promotion. Or the day she told him she was pregnant.

Deep down, I know this is a story I’m telling to myself feel better for not taking a risk. At the end of the day we’re always justifying everything, all of the time, in our own individual ways.

I turn away from him and stare at the purple remnants in the bottom of my chalice.

One sip and it’s gone.

One sip and I’m out of here.

One sip and I’ll never see the man with the gold-flecked irises again.

I must admit, I’m quite flattered by the fact that out of all the lovely and beautiful women in this bar tonight, this dashing Adonis approached me.

“I realize I’m in a singles bar on a Friday night,” I say, “but I can assure you, you’d have better luck casting your line in another direction.”

He half-laughs. “What?”

“You’re fishing. You want sex.” I blink. “Not judging you. Just saying, you’re wasting valuable time and energy on me.”

His brows meet. His gaze snaps to my left hand. “You’re taken?”

I bite my lip, shake my head. “No.”

“Then, what? You aren’t into men?”

“I’m into men. I just don’t sleep with people I don’t know.” I sit taller. “I don’t do one night stands. Nothing personal.”

“Fair enough. Dare I ask why?” He squints, and for a second, I think he might be genuinely interested in my answer because he doesn’t take his attention off of me for one moment. I’m also impressed that he isn’t shrinking away from the sting of rejection or denying that he was, in fact, only after one thing.

The world needs more people like him—at least, assuming he’s every ounce the single, sex-prowling man he claims to be and not a married dad from the suburbs.

“A woman’s odds of orgasming during a hook-up with a stranger is a paltry twenty-two percent and the average duration of said encounter is seven minutes. I can do better on my own.

Not to mention, over forty percent of men have had dozens of partners—and a third of those men have had over one hundred.”

Once again … numbers don’t lie.

“Why’d you come here then?” he asks.

“Because drinking alone in my hotel room on my birthday would’ve been a new low for me.” This time, I don’t lie to this stranger. I have no reason to. Besides, stating anything other than this would be lying to myself.

I take full responsibility for not doing my research on this bar. I also take full responsibility for not walking out the door the instant I set foot in here and immediately overheard a couple of guys talking about how this was the “hottest hook up bar on Washington street.”

This place is walking distance from my hotel—and by walking distance, I mean it’s practically connected. Their walls are sandwiched together on a busy strip of downtown street, the New York City skyline in the distance and the faint stench of the Hudson River infused into every breath.

I stay in this neighborhood every time I travel here for work.

It’s familiar. I know what to expect.

I toss back the final few milliliters of my pinot and place the goblet on my cardboard coaster before sliding it away.

“Happy birthday,” he says.

I meet his gaze. My breath catches in my chest with the gusto of a silly school girl with a two-second crush. Heat blankets my body.

If I were an adventurous woman, his mouth would be on mine by now. My fingers would be deep in his sandy hair. We’d be going at it in the bathroom, his back against the door to keep unsuspecting patrons from barging in. Or maybe they would barge in, but we’d be going at it so hard we wouldn’t notice or care. Maybe when it’s over, we’d sprint to my hotel room for round two followed by breakfast in bed and round three in the morning. We’d go our own ways, sore and satisfied, and I’d file the entire encounter away in my memory.

But I’m not that girl.

And I’ll never be.

I rise from the bar stool and collect my things. “Thank you for the drink. And for your honesty. It’s refreshing.”

He chews the inside of his lower lip, studying me. “So you’re just going to go back to your hotel room now? Spend the rest of your birthday alone?”

I offer a surrendering shrug and lift my brows. “Yep.”

“Where’d you get those numbers? Those statistics?” he asks.

“On one night stands?”