Page 1 of Trials of a One Night Stand
CHAPTER ONE
NATE
Friday night is the perfect time to loosen my tie, take off my suit jacket, and relax after a long week. The noisy bar tells me I’m in the right place to do just that, but the two empty spots at my table—and my younger brother with his gaze glued to his phone—suggests my friends and family would rather be elsewhere.
It’s no fun to drink alone. Trust me, I know what being alone is like all too well I’ve become an unwilling participant in an experiment on how the lack of social interaction outside of the office affects a person’s mental state. So far, the results are borderline disturbing.
I stare at my brother, trying to get him to look at me. Oblivious, he continues to ignore me.
Fuck.
Do the guys even know how early I had to get here to snag this table? The bar with a wood ceiling, hand carved bar, and expensive cocktails is the epitome of Seattle trendy right now.
Probably not because they have other things on their mind, like their wives.
Me? I have nowhere to go except back to an empty house where no one else lives. Not even a goldfish or a plant grace the bleak space. I stare at my drink, trying to pretend the evening will get better, when my heart tells me it’s already a lost cause. I’ll likely end up at the office tomorrow and Sunday because that’s better than sitting at home by myself.
Somewhere behind me women laugh. I glance over my shoulder and see a stunning woman in a bronze top with thin shoulder straps. She wears her golden blond hair in a messy bun and sits at a large booth with several other women.
My gaze lingers as she turns toward the woman on her right and the fabric of her shirt stretches over her breasts—high, round breasts any man would be lucky to gaze upon. As my groin twitches, I face forward. At least others are having fun. That had been my plan for the evening as well. I need to have a good time. Hell, I need a life, one that doesn’t revolve around work.
I take another sip of my drink and try not to grimace. Whiskey sours are really sour when you feel fucking miserable.
Yes, my hopes for a night out had been high when I arrived, but this evening has been nothing more than a waste of my time. Who am I kidding? I feel like a discarded lab sample, the backup easily tossed in the trash for being nonessential. I may be the golden boy of the pharmaceutical industry, but fuck, it’s lonely at the top.
I’ve become slightly tarnished, some of which I accept is my fault, but not all. People think I’m sticking my nose where it doesn’t belong, but if more of them took my advice from the starts, I wouldn’t have to go to such drastic measures. Sure, some of my methods have been questionable, but I only have the best intentions for my friends and family.
Funny, though, how I always end up being right in the end. I know exactly what others need. But does anyone give me any credit?
Nope.
I stare into my drink, noticing how much the ice cubes have melted, diluting the alcohol I need to escape this shit show, a.k.a. my evening out with friends. It’s been a long time since we’ve been together, and a night out is rare for me these days.
Ashton laughs at something on his phone—no doubt his wife, Chloe, is texting him—which is why he isn’t talking to me.
I’d rather be texting with a beautiful woman so I can’t really blame him, but what am I now? That person who gets pity acceptances for drinks? Of course, I’m also the boss, so it’s no wonder the fuckers felt compelled to show up after I invited them. Not that anyone has spoken more than a handful of words to me yet.
Fuck my life.
I take another sip, trying to think of a way to salvage the evening. If that’s even possible. We used to all have so much in common. Namely work, but a few years ago we also had similar lifestyles a few years ago. Now their personal lives have diverged completely from mine.
And that sucks.
A three-quarters-full pint of beer sits at Max’s empty spot. He stepped away to take a call from his wife. The way his face lit up when he glanced at Sophie’s name on the phone—I could see his screen from where I sat—was enough to make me want to vomit.
A glass of bourbon sits at the other empty spot, awaiting Bradley’s return. He needed to use the bathroom—or lavatory as he called it, because that’s Bradley—but my money’s on him wanting to phone his wife, Christina. The two of them can’t stand to be apart. At first, I thought she put pheromones into her perfumes, but nope, they’re just naturally crazy about each other.
So here I sit nursing my own drink and watching two others. At least Ashton can take care of his own. The asshole. He might dress like the VP of Marketing at Zentello with his tie perfectly straight and his jacket still on, but by the way he’s glued to his phone, he’s acting like a teenager.
Fuck it. I clear my throat. “Now I know why Mom says no phones at the table.” Even though she and Dad still only talk to each other and not us during mealtime.
“Sorry.” Ashton snickers. “Chloe’s telling me about Harlowe’s swim lesson today.”
Harlowe is two. I’m not sure why she needs swimming lessons, but what do I know about kids? I’m just an uncle who enjoys spoiling his two nieces.
“Harlowe wants to be the best big sister ever, so she thought Willow should get in the pool, too,” Ashton adds.
“Do they let newborns swim?”
