Fight For Her

1 EMORY “You know what they say about oysters’ aphrodisiac properties.” Oh, crap. Really? He was going to use that line? It was laced with innuendo and ridiculous bivalve knowledge I wanted to know nothing about. I smiled vaguely at…Bob. No, Bill. Something with a B. He was in his thirties, well dressed in a suit with a gray tie, as if he came directly from work. He had all his hair, was well groomed, yet seemed perfectly…average. Average wasn't bad, but oysters? Yeah, no. The sit-down dinner portion of my friend Christy’s engagement party finished awhile ago and the group moved from a private room to the bar area to drink and socialize. Clearly the socializing part wasn’t going well as I had to watch him slurp down oyster after oyster. Hadn't he gotten enough to eat at the dinner? I was full of crab cakes and didn't have room for anything else, especially oysters. Gah. Let's just say watching someone eat them is not a spectator sport. I bit my lip as he used a cocktail napkin to wipe oyster juice that dripped down his chin. Christy had met an amazing man in her fiancé, Paul, but his cousin, who was attempting to work his lackluster charm on me while eating live Chesapeake Bay bottom feeders, was a complete dud. I glanced out the wall of windows. With the restaurant six floors up in a new boutique hotel right on the harbor, the view was amazing. I really wanted to give him the brush-off, to tell him he needed a breath mint and a toothpick, but he was related to Paul and I owed it to Christy to keep from alienating one of her future relatives. Besides, I’d probably have to see him at the wedding in a few months, and God forbid he was one of the groomsmen. As a bridesmaid—the oldest bridesmaid in history—I'd probably have to walk down the aisle on his arm. I tried to smile and nod as diplomatically as possible. Smile and nod, but he had the personality of a sea slug, or an oyster. We’d talked about Paul and Christy for a minute or two, but after that…he showed himself to be a player. He stood a little too close, his gaze surreptitiously dropping to my chest, and he had an odd leer. It had to be a leer or he had some kind of tick in the corner of his lip. Why the guy was lingering with me where there was zero hope of…anything, I had no idea. I’d been burned by a man, okay, scorched to a charcoal briquette, and I wasn’t looking for another one. I’d survived the divorce, survived because Chris needed a mother, needed me to be the strong one. But he was away at college now and I wasn’t shielded behind the role of parent any longer. I could chat about off-sides rules in soccer or PTA fundraisers, but talking to a guy, a real guy and not another parent from high school, was unbelievably hard. I doubted this guy knew about any of that and probably once he discovered I had a child—even an eighteen year old—he'd take his oysters elsewhere. God, I was such an introvert! I hated big crowds, new people, loud noises. I wasn't party person. Because of this, it was so hard meeting new people. I was terrible at it, unlike Christy, who never knew a stranger. The whole introvert-extrovert dynamic helped when she’d been able to pull me out of my shell my first day of work, thankfully introducing me around my new department, which had made us instant friends. It’s not as if I was shy or weird or anything, but I was definitely set in my ways. That’s what I called it, at least. Christy called it lonely and I couldn’t think of anything more depressing than that. She considered me lonely. She wasn't being mean, just honest. But, I'd been cautious for so long and it had been even longer since I dated. Like almost twenty years. That's why I showed up at the engagement party without a plus-one and why I wasn’t interested in Bob/Bill and his ridiculous pick-up tactics. Sure, a guy would be great, for my vibrator didn't talk and got the job done, but it wasn't like a real man. An orgasm with a real man wasn't worth playing games and I didn't want to even learn the rules of dating in the twenty-first century. Compared to Bob/Bill, my vibrator was going to win tonight. I sighed and took a sip of my water. “Look, I’ve got to go. I think Christy’s waving me over.” I took a step away but he put his hand on my bare arm. His fingers were chilled and I had to wonder what kind of oyster cooties he'd just passed to me. “You should only eat oysters in the months that don’t have an R.” He nodded as if to confirm his statement. My brain had wandered a bit, but stopped to think about what he said. Months without an R. November. No. April. No. May. Yes. June, July, August. This was the most interesting thing he’d said so far, but really…oyster-eating months? “Then I guess you shouldn’t have eaten them then, right?” I wondered, eyebrow raised. He shrugged sheepishly, even flushed a little, but hadn't noticed the sarcasm in my voice. “September’s not too far past all the non-R months.” He grinned and I noticed a slight overlap of his front two teeth. “I like to live dangerously.” His thumb stroked over my arm and I stepped back out of the hold. Right. I inwardly rolled my eyes. He didn’t look like he took any chances at all since he was talking to me and not some of the other women in the bar who were more provocatively dressed and a sure thing. Younger, too. At thirty-eight, I wasn't really old, but most women my age didn't have a son in college. Some I knew were herding their Kindergartener to peewee soccer. I wasn’t giving off any indication to Bob/Bill that said take me home with you. The way I had my arms crossed over my chest, even while holding my glass, was a classic indication of not interested. He had no clue. A woman wanted a guy who pushed her up against the wall and kissed the ever loving daylights out of her. Well, I did. Wild monkey s*x would be good, too. This guy? Not a chance. If I had to guess, I’d say…accountant. I took a sip of my ice water with lime and glanced up at him through my dark lashes. “What do you do?” He put an empty half shell on his plate. “I’m an auditor with Social Security.” Close enough. I nodded vaguely, trying to keep my eyes from glazing over. He was looking for a woman who wanted the white-picket-fence life with two kids and a dog—and oysters. Been there, done that. I even got the T-shirt and now used it to clean my toilet. Glancing at Christy from across the crowded room, I saw her laughing at something the woman next to her said. She looked amazing in her red silk halter dress, her tanned shoulders and back exposed. Her hair was sleek and long and her makeup was definitely night-on-the-town heavy. It was a different look than her business suits for her job at the hospital, and even fancier yet than my everyday ER scrubs. Surprising Paul with her daring outfit had been her plan when we’d gone shopping for her dress, and the way his hand rested just north of appropriate on the small of her back, I’d say it worked. They were blatantly in love and it was a little hard to watch sometimes. The tug of longing was strong, like an ache, for I’d never seen the look Paul was giving her ever from Jack. What hurt wasn't that I'd missed out, but that I might never have it. My own dress wasn’t remotely in the same caliber as Christy’s. I wasn’t trying to please my future husband and I wasn’t looking for one either. Not at a bar and not with Bob/Bill. I had no clue how to pick someone up and I wasn’t twenty-one anymore. My dating skills weren’t just rusty, they were stored in a time capsule from the nineties. I observed other women around the bar area; some wore less clothes than I did when I was in my pajamas, leaving not much to the imagination. They smiled coyly, touched, crossed and uncrossed their legs, batted their eyelashes. “What about you?” he asked, distracting me from my study. I glanced toward Paul and Christy and caught sight of a man standing with them, a man who definitely had not been there before. If he had, I wouldn't have taken my eyes from him. “Oh, um…nurse practitioner,” I responded absently as I noticed the man’s arm, corded muscles shifting below the white sleeve of the dress shirt. A tattoo peeked out from beneath the rolled-up cuff and his hands were big, the fingers blunt. I couldn’t see the rest of him, and a visceral need took hold to do so. That was a man. Bob/Bill placed his plate on an empty high top and picked up his beer. Doing so, he inched even closer, irritating me. “Is that one of those aids that helps wheel patients to x-ray? I like those cute uniforms you get to wear.” Stepping back, I ignored his words, frustrated I couldn’t get a glimpse of the man. Fortunately, a woman left the group, creating an opening where he was clearly visible. Heat flooded my veins at the sight of him and I felt weird butterflies in my stomach. This wasn’t silly, school girl crush feelings. This was something else entirely. This was intense, raw lust. Holy hell, I swear my n*****s tightened beneath my dress. He was taller than Paul’s six foot frame with broader shoulders and closely cropped dark hair. Well dressed, he wore a silver tie, loosened with the top buttons of his crisp dress shirt undone, and dark pants. It seemed formal for him, but he wore it well, but I could only imagine him in a pair of worn jeans and…and nothing else because fit didn’t begin to describe him. He was all ripped, lean muscle and my fingers itched to feel them. From here I could see his eyes were dark, a deep and equally dark brow that shadowed them. If I felt this way by just a glance, what would happen if he turned that gaze on me? I swallowed at the very idea. He was definitely tall and dark, but handsome? Not in the traditional sense, but he hit every one of my hot buttons, every button I had no idea I even had. The smile he gave Paul was wide and friendly and my heart lurched. Although I felt like I’d been staring at him for minutes, it had been a matter of seconds of ogling. My reaction was instantaneous and almost steamy and…why him? I’d seen more attractive men and never reacted this way before. My body didn’t care that his nose looked like it had been broken at least twice. It indicated a life had been hard and well fought and I could relate to that. He was the complete opposite of what I was usually attracted to, which was based on attractive guys in movies, not real ones. If the latest James Bond happened to be across the room, I’d certainly knock the other ladies down to get to him. But this wasn’t James Bond. More like his brother who’d been born on the wrong side of the tracks, joined the military, then a biker gang, and rounded it out with a law degree at Harvard. He looked comfortable in his tattoos and also in the tie. “Well?” Bob/Bill shifted enough to block my view of the guy and I frowned. He was keeping me from staring at the hot guy. What had he asked me? Right, job. “Yeah, no.” Such a chauvinistic i***t. “That’s a candy striper, and they’re either fifteen years old or eighty, so nothing like that at all.” Candy striper, my ass. When I shifted to get a glimpse of mystery man again, he was gone. Of course he was gone while I was lingering with Mr. Dud with oyster breath. Surely he’d caught up to his girlfriend or wife by now, had a hand at the small of her back, kissed her hello. God, I was wasting my time. Why had I stayed chatting with a guy who made gross misogynistic assumptions about my profession? I'd worked my ass off for my credentials. I should have made some kind of excuse and fled five minutes ago. A hand sliding down my back and settling on my waist had my mind reengaging. “So, ready to head back to my place?” He took a sip of his beer and watched me over the glass, felt his fingers squeeze my side through my dress.