Page 5 of Broken Vows

“I’m sure he’s just people-watching,” I say, setting my glass down.

“Very selectively, apparently,” she says. “There’s a woman in a very short dress going up to him.”

“Stop looking at him.”

She doesn’t.

“He’s turning her down,” she says.

“You can’t possibly know that.”

“He just said about four words and now she’s walking away.”

I tell myself not to look. Then immediately look.

There is, in fact, a pretty young blonde in an alarmingly short dress moving away from the bar with the slightly stunned expression. But my gaze shifts past her to him.

He’s not what I was expecting at all. I was thinking older, a nice suit, distinguished.

He’s…arresting.

With a face like that, he should be pretty. Straight nose, sharp cheekbones, eyes so blue I can see them from across the room. But whatever beauty he was born with, he’s done his best to ruin it. His dark hair is overgrown and pushed back like he’s dragged his fingers through it instead of a comb. His stubble is thick and uneven, like he shaves only because he has to and resents every second of it. A small gold hoop glints in one ear, almost absurd on a man that big and rough. It should soften him. Somehow it does the opposite. Especially when I notice the scarred knuckles wrapped around his glass.

He’s wearing a plain white T-shirt and jeans, which should look underdressed in a place like this. Somehow it doesn’t.

And now that I glance around, it’s not just me looking.

A woman at the next table has gone quiet mid-sentence while her friend keeps talking. The bartender keeps finding reasons to pass his end of the bar. Diane is staring over the rim of her glass like she’s watching a nature documentary.

He doesn’t seem to notice any of it. He just stands there, looking straight at me like I’m the only person in the room.

He can’t be more than forty. Young enough that he has no business looking at me, especially not with half the women in this bar ready to forget who they came in with.

So why is he?

Heat creeps up my neck. I turn back to Diane, suddenly aware of every inch of myself. My jeans. My bare arms. The loose strands of hair slipping from my clip.

“What does he want?” I ask.

Diane looks at me like I’ve asked why water is wet. “I’m sure he wants to discuss wine pairings.”

I give her a flat look.

She smiles into her glass. “Clearly, he likes what he sees.”

I glance back toward the bar. Another woman has already drifted into his space, one elbow on the counter, her body angled toward him in clear invitation. He gives her a brief look, says something low enough that I can’t hear it, then turns back to his drink. A few seconds later, she leaves.

“Why don’t you go over?” Diane says.

“God, no.”

Even if I were interested, which I’m not, I’ve just watched the man turn away two very beautiful women. Besides…

“I’m still technically married, remember?”

“So? Doesn’t mean you can’t have some fun.”

Fun.