I stir the straw in my drink in circular motions trying to rid myself of these thoughts when a whiff of cologne strikes me. Trying not to seem obvious, I slowly peek at the arm beside me with the corner of my eye. It’s all muscle, nice and hard. Taking a deep breath, the part of me below that stirs, does nothing to cure my blues as if I could hook up with someone. One, Liam and I aren’t over. Two, this guy could be really unattractive. Three, I’m not that person. Sleeping with someone else is completely out of my comfort zone. I have been with one guy for four years. I might as well have been a nun. It’s like my past never existed.
But I can flirt—harmless flirting.
“Nice drink. Scotch?” I ask.
The man stops drinking, holding his glass in mid-air, which gives me a chance to look at his face. A little older than what I like, but he has a mature face with slight wrinkles around his baby-blue eyes.
“Bourbon.”
I smile, unsure of where to go from here. “Nice.”
He doesn’t say another word, glass in hand and walks away.
Oh, that’s terrible.
Damn! Is it really this hard?
Maybe it’s not hard, I’m not exactly a supermodel with a banging body. I have gained weight over the past few months—stress eating as they call it. I’ve always had this complex about my looks—the fact that I look kind of Asian but also not is because of my mixed-race background. People often ask me about my ethnicity, confused by the almond-shaped eyes and scattered freckles across my nose coupled with my light hair that almost touches my waist.
Alone at the bar with one failed flirting attempt, I’m so ready to call it a night.
Just as I’m about to give up and say goodbye to Flynn, a cuter, younger guy walks to the bar, easing his body between myself and another lady, ordering a Corona. He smells nice like fresh waterfalls mixed with something manly.
“You’ve been sitting on that drink most of the night.” His voice is husky, the kind of voice that would sound great on a sex hotline.
“Not much of a drinker.” I grin. He’s cute—Ryan Gosling in The Notebook cute. “Here to support my brother.” I point toward the stage. Flynn is banging it out to a rendition of Eye of the Tiger.
“He’s pretty awesome. He should play when the agents visit. I’m Mitch.” He extends his hand, and I shake it, trying to ignore Phoebe’s words about hands and sizes of genitalia.
“Milana.”
“Beautiful name for a beautiful girl.”
A deep laugh erupts from my mouth and he appears confused at my sudden outburst.
“Sorry, I don’t mean to laugh. It’s just… this is weird.”
He smiles, raising a brow, resting his elbow on the bar and drawing himself closer to me. “Explain?”
“I don’t flirt if that’s what this is.”
Oh my God, that sounds terrible. I should not be allowed to hang around people.
“Sometimes flirting isn’t needed, not when you’re naturally beautiful, Milana.”
I laugh again, this time clutching onto my belly. It moves up and down, beginning to ache. “Oh my God, what’s wrong with me? I’m sorry, it’s not funny. I mean you’re not funny. I’m seriously laughing at my stupidity here.” I bring the glass toward my lips, allowing the remains of the drink to burn my throat to ease my nerves. Mitch whistles for the bartender, ordering me another drink which I gracefully accept, not wanting to be rude.
“Okay, maybe you’re right. Flirting isn’t your forte. Let’s start again.” He extends his hand, keeping his smile simple. “Hi, I’m Mitch.”
“Hi, I’m Milana.”
“Okay, no. Now you sound like you’re forcing it.”
“Forcing what?”
“The flirting. You batted your eyelashes.”
I scrunch up my face, unsure if I did that but hadn’t been aware. “I suck.”