Mystery Man (Dream Man #1)(26)

I wasn’t daydreaming, I was thinking about where I’d gone wrong.

Two years ago, after Tracy had successfully passed an online course in bartending, she’d stepped out of her chosen career of hopscotching through every exclusive retail clothing store at Cherry Creek Mall and scored a job at Club. Club was a trendy eatery that had really good food, stylish, sophisticated glasses in which they served their drinks, three open fires that made the space warm and welcoming, every table was a booth and it had a huge circular bar in the middle where you could see and be seen.

At the time Club was Cam, Trace and my top spot for seeing and being seen while drinking cosmopolitans (though, to be honest, we went there because of the glasses which were flipping fantastic). It now was not since Tracy had broken so many of their fancy glasses, her boss had to let her go. He did this with tears in his eyes because he, like any man with a pulse, was half in love with her – I’d seen it, I was there, so was Cam and it wasn’t pretty.

But I was there one night a year and a half ago, drinking cosmos and keeping Tracy company on her shift.

I was well into cosmo number three and already slightly hammered because I was on some crazy diet where I was detoxing (though I had altered the diet to allow cosmos, of course) and therefore had nearly three cosmos under my belt with zero food for the day.

This was stupid, I could see this now. At the time, it didn’t seem stupid because Tracy was my ride. Troy had dropped me off and Tracy was taking me home. I could get as drunk as I wanted, flirt as much as I wanted and cackle with Tracy as much as I wanted.

Then he walked in, the Great Mystery Man, now known as Cabe “Hawk” Delgado.

I’d fallen in love with him at first sight. No joke. He was hot but it wasn’t lust. It was love.

Okay, it was part lust but it was mostly love.

There was no explaining this, even now, looking back. There was just something about the way he was, wearing faded jeans, a tailored black shirt and great black boots, clearly comfortable and confident in his style and in himself; the way he moved, graceful yet powerful, masculine, with his prowl, his confidence, his natural charisma and his looks, he owned the room; and the way he could sit at a booth and eat all alone and seem totally cool with that. He fiddled with his phone, receiving and sending texts, taking calls, he glanced here and there and he seemed like he was naturally alert to every nuance of the room but he was at ease in his own company and it was freaking awesome.

To my delight, they’d seated him at a booth on my side of the bar.

As usual when going out (Hawk did not lie, when I went out, I showed skin but that was me and Meredith taught me to embrace my own style so I did), I’d worn a skimpy, clingy, stretchy dress that showed lots of leg due to it being uber-short, lots of arm due to it being sleeveless and lots of back due to a low vee. At the time I’d owned eleven little black dresses and that dress was number three in my ranking of how hot they were (now I owned thirteen and it had slid down to position five). I had on spike-heeled, strappy sandals, my hair was out to there and my makeup was “do you come here often?”

I wasn’t on the prowl, I was there to have a nice night with my girlfriend who was f**king up at work and needed moral support but that didn’t mean I couldn’t look hot.

Sitting on my barstool, drinking cosmos like they were diet grape soda, I did everything I could to get Hawk’s attention, twisting and turning on my stool, crossing and uncrossing my legs, sucking and twirling a cocktail straw, flipping my hair unnecessarily.

And as he ate (and as I surreptitiously watched him eat, and sit, and fiddle with his phone, etc.), he didn’t even look at me.

So when he paid his bill, slid out of the booth and it was clear he was about to leave, I was devastated.

Yes, the feeling was devastated.

I knew in my cosmo-drenched brain that that man walking out the door was the end of my life. It was the loss of my last chance at happiness. It was the death of a dream.

And I’d turned to the bar, downed the last sip of my cosmo and contemplated hare kare when, suddenly, I felt a warm hand on the skin of my lower back.

I twisted my neck, looked up and there he was.

I held my breath and he asked, “You comin’ or what?”

That was it. That was his pickup line. “You comin’ or what?”

I went. I grabbed my purse, gave the high sign to a staring Tracy and walked out of that restaurant with him. He loaded me into a black SUV, asked my address, took me home and f**ked my brains out.

I’d never done anything like that before in my life, not even close. It was an unbelievably insane thing to do.

And it was magnificent.

Until I woke up the next morning and he was gone.

I knew I’d f**ked up. He was amazing. I was a drunken one night stand, I didn’t have his number and didn’t know his name.

I’d instantly plummeted into the depths of despair and washed away my hangover that very night with more cosmopolitans at Club, this time with Tracy bartending and Cam at my side where I explained the depths of my despair at length and every time the door opened or there was movement in that direction, I craned my neck, hoping he was coming in looking for me.

He wasn’t.

It wasn’t until three days later when I felt my comforter slide back, waking me from a deep sleep, my mind and body froze in terrified panic, then his weight hit the bed, his never to be forgotten voice said, “Hey babe,” his arms wrapped around me and he kissed me. Then he did other things to me, really, really good things.