Cowboy Baby Daddy

I don’t know what the picture looks like because I don’t look at the wall. The odds of Dane actually being here are so remote that I don’t even want to know whose shirt I’m holding.

Annabeth walks with me back to the table, and I set the bag down. Annabeth, though, just picks it right back up, opens it and puts her whole face in the bag.

“That’s not bad,” she says. “A little conventional for my taste, but it’s all right.”

“Excuse me,” a man’s voice comes from behind me.

I turn around.

It’s not Dane.

“I saw your picture up there, holding my shirt,” he says. “My name’s Will.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I tell him. “I’m kind of new at this, so I don’t really know—”

“Her name’s Leila,” Annabeth interrupts. “She’s single.”

I flash a glare, but quickly turn back to the man.

“I’m Leila,” I tell him. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Would you like to get a drink?” he asks.

“Only if you’re buying,” Annabeth answers for me.

I scowl at her again, but walk with the man to the bar.

“It’s all right,” he says. “It’s my first time at one of these, too. What would you like to drink?”

“Tequila,” I tell him. “Actually, make that a double with a beer back.”

“Hitting it hard,” he says, smiling. “I like that.”

He’s got a cute smile, but he’s not Dane.

I really thought I was doing the best thing for both of us by not dragging things out. Long-distance relationships never work, and neither of us were ready to give up enough to stay together, so I shouldn’t feel this conflicted.

He orders my drinks and something for himself and we find a place to sit and talk. I could kill Annabeth for just leaving me with a stranger like this.

“So, what do you do?” he asks.

“I’m a stockbroker,” I tell him.

“Sounds exciting,” he says. “Are you one of those people on the floor of the exchange?”

“No,” I tell him. “I handle the portfolios of different clients, give them suggestions as to what stocks within their realm of interest and desired risk level might be good choices. I basically try to make people money.”

“That’s not a bad gig,” he says.

I hope he doesn’t think it’s rude that I take both shots and drink half my beer before responding.

“It’s what I do,” I tell him boringly. “What do you do?”

“I’m a fireman,” he says.

Oh shit.

“Really.” No, it’s not a question.