The Trouble With Him: A Secret Pregnancy Romance (The Forbidden Love 3)

An odd smell permeates the place, causing me to scrunch my nose upon stepping further inside. Almost everyone is already drunk, dancing to questionable music from some era I’m unfamiliar with. Jugs of beer are served all around me with tall glasses, and the word ‘pint’ is yelled way too often by the bar staff serving.

People are jolly, cheering on newcomers as if every

one inside the bar is their best friend. It will only be a matter of time before I fall prey to their overbearing social behavior. I already dread it, desperate to wallow in self-pity alone at the bar. There’s plenty of laughter and a few playful fights followed by more obnoxious roars.

I need alcohol—stat. And beggars can’t be choosers.

“What’s the strongest thing you’ve got?” I yell over the noise to the bartender.

The man is older, perhaps in his fifties, with salt and pepper-colored hair. With a sly grin, his dimples appear which catch my attention. I find myself staring, oddly, until he winks while pulling a bottle of whisky from the shelf behind him.

“This is what you need.” The brown liquor is poured from the bottle into the glass. “Macallan neat. Best way to ring in the new year.”

I’m not one to enjoy whisky, preferring cocktails and other bright and colorful drinks with umbrellas hanging off the side. But I no longer care about anything or anyone, desperate to forget I even exist right now.

My fingers wrap around the glass as I stare at the amber liquid. Without another thought, I throw it back, allowing the burning sensation to slide down my throat. I let out a rasp as the amused bartender watches on.

“Sweetheart, we nurse, not chug.”

Unable to hold back my distaste for the intense flavor, I wrinkle my nose and open my mouth with my tongue pushing slightly forward.

“That was…” My words are caught in my throat as I wonder how my father drinks this stuff. It’s his go-to drink for everything. “Strong. Hit me up with another.”

I have no idea why I order another, but the smoky flavor continues to linger, and I feel my limbs falling lighter. Upon recommendation, I nurse the second one until the music becomes somewhat tolerable. It’s all old-school mixes, well before I was even born. As I turn to see the folk around me, a guy is wearing a t-shirt that says Rub me, I’m Lucky. The tall college-aged man wearing some ‘80s punk rock orange wig would be lucky as fuck to have anyone rub him. He’s what one would call the life of the party, but not someone you’d take back home and into bed.

It could be worse—you could be single in a bar on New Year’s Eve after finding your boyfriend in bed with another man.

As the memory rears its ugly head, I call for more drinks. By my fourth, the bar is much more pleasant. I make friends with Alistair, the bartender. It turns out he is married with three kids to some Australian chick. He owns the bar, and his wife is an artist. It’s a shame. The more we speak, the more I realize older men can be quite attractive. Maybe, I shouldn’t be so picky and extend my age range to accommodate older men. Imagine that—my father would kill me.

I remove the black coat I wear as the temperature inside becomes warmer. A few people notice, eyeing me with a sleazy lick of the lips. I ignore them, aware my cocktail dress is somewhat scandalous in a casual joint like this.

There’s a brush against my arm as a man squeezes in, a little too close for comfort.

“Hey, gorgeous,” he greets, standing at my side while leaning his arm on the bar. “Looks like you could use someone tonight?”

Turning to look at him, I see a typical metrosexual guy with everything so perfect—probably another gay guy. The eyebrows are way too shaped for my liking. Andy and Jessa’s voices ring in my head from the last conversation we had about my choice of men. I’m not that picky. Sure, I like a handsome man, and on occasion, I have nit-picked, but that’s out of boredom and usually a sign I need to move on.

Perhaps, I’ll try something new. Give this guy the benefit of the doubt.

“Ava Edwards,” I introduce myself with a smile. “And you are?”

“Richard.” He lowers his head, then lifts his gaze with a simper. “Everhard.”

I almost spit out my drink. “Your name is Dick Everhard?”

“If you want it to be.”

An exaggerated sigh leaves my mouth. Great, this is what I have to look forward to being single again. And here I was trying to give him the benefit of the doubt, only for him to assume I’m after his dick.

“I think we’re done,” I drag.

“C’mon, you’re hot. A little fun won’t hurt you.”

I’m about to unleash my inner goddess, though she’s long drunk and barely able to stand straight until a familiar scent lingers in the air.

“How about you leave her alone?” The recognizable voice warns Dick.

I turn my body, my gaze lifting to meet the hazel-colored eyes from my past. Unable to hide my joy at seeing a familiar face, I instantly throw my arms around Austin’s neck.