Bare in Bermuda - Chapter #1 - Free To Read

Chapter One

Henna waited as patiently as a woman with a plane to catch could. The recycled air, artificial lighting, and harassed airline staff at the San Francisco International Airport did little to alleviate her anxiety.

The line to check-in moved glacially slow, which, in one way, helped, since Simon, her best friend and travel partner, had yet to show. After a brief and ultimately disastrous try at dating in their first year of med school, they had mutually agreed they were better off as friends.

She didn't want to push to the front of the line, but if something didn't happen quickly, she'd never make her flight―with or without Simon. She craned her head, dancing from foot to foot as her eyes searched the crowd for Simon.

“Thank God,” she sighed when she spotted his brown head weaving its way through the crowd toward her. “You're here.” She took his hand when he reached her.

“Yeah, I'm here,” he moaned. “I'm dying.” Perpetually cheerful and pink cheeked, Simon had a ghostly pallor and dour expression.

“You don't look good.” She instinctively placed a professional hand to his forehead.

“I'm dying.” Like a surly child, he shook away her hand with a jerk of his head. “I'm sure I'm dying. I'm a doctor. I know terminal illness, and I have one.” Like most doctors, Simon was a hypochondriac. He'd been perpetually dying since they met on the first day of med school.

“No,” she said. “You cannot be dying. You need to be my plus-one at my sister's wedding. You owe me. I spent a week in rural Texas without the internet or reliable cellphone reception for you. I almost got bit by a rattlesnake, you shot me in the butt, and, as god as my witness, your grandmother's house is haunted. I swear I still have to sleep with the lights on. You owe me and today is payday.”

“I know,” he grumbled through clenched teeth. “This is the only reason why I’m here. Believe me; our friendship got me out of the bathroom this morning. If I didn’t appreciate you as much as I do, I wouldn’t be here right now. This is true friendship.”

“What are your symptoms?” She looked at Simon more as a patient than as a friend.

“You know that Chinese place that's open late by my place?”

“The one I swear should be shut down by the health department?”

“That would be the one,” he said.

“You didn't,” she sighed.

“I did,” he said.

A uniformed airline agent came through the line, asking for all passengers heading to Miami to step up to the counter, which had just been opened to check them in.

“That's us,” she said.

“I am not well.” Simon followed her, his head hanging down.

“Give me your passport and do not say you're sick,” she hissed quietly.

She put their tickets and passports on the counter and tried to smile at the stony-faced woman who stared at a computer screen. “We're heading to Bermuda through Miami.”

“Your flight is overbooked, but I've put you on standby.” The woman tapped her fingernails against her keyboard without bothering to look at them.

“Fantastic,” she grumbled. “Would it help if I said I have to get to my sister's wedding?” She smiled hopefully.

The agent looked up from her monitor and stared. “Only if she has a seat on this flight and is willing to give it up for you.”

“Perhaps if I explained the situation to you, you might be more sympathetic? Maybe you could work your magic in the reservations system?” She held her smile as the agent stared over her glasses. “My sister—my little twenty-four year old sister—is getting married to an equally juvenile twenty-six year old Colombian diplomatic intern— intern mind you, not even a paying job— she met in Italy three months ago.” She held up three fingers to emphasize her point. The agent stared blandly.

“Now, I love my sister. I truly love my sister. With all of my heart, I love my sister. She’s the human equivalent to cute kittens on the internet. Everybody loves Eden. Everybody doesn’t love me. Okay, they love me, but I haven’t been as wholly enthusiastic about this whole ridiculous—”

“You think your sister getting married is ridiculous?” The agent raised an eyebrow.

“Uhh…” Didn’t everyone agree with her that her twenty-four year old sister getting married to a twenty-six year old after knowing each other for three months was ridiculous? They were like kindergarteners playing bride and groom, and she seemed to be the only adult that didn’t find it adorable. Arriving at the decision to get married required serious consideration and planning. Not waking up one morning in a villa in Tuscany and saying let’s get married! And then give everyone two weeks’ notice to get to Bermuda for the destination wedding. “No.” Think. “It’s just that I’m thirty-four—”

“You’re thirty-six.” The ticket agent holds up her passport. “If it’s any consolation, I get it. I have an older sister who’s jealous of me and my husband. We married young. She’s a bitter old spinster, too.”

“Spinster? Thirty-four—”

“Six. Thirty-six.”

“Thirty-six is not a spinster. And I am not jealous.” You are so jealous you’ve started grinding your teeth and growling, you naughty little liar.

“Really? You'll get your seat assignments for the Miami-Bermuda leg at the gate in Miami. You probably won’t have a problem getting a seat. Just try not to be too much of a drag when you get to Bermuda. It’s your sister’s big day.

The woman looked past her to Simon, who had started moaning and clutching his stomach. “Sir, are you okay?”

“He's fine.” Henna smiled so wide her jaws ached. “Just a nervous flier. Right, sweetie?” She propped up Simon by putting her arm around his waist. “He's perfectly fine.” She patted him on the stomach. A retching noise rose up from inside his body.

“He doesn't look fine,” the woman said. “He looks the opposite of fine. He looks like he's going hurl.”

Simon grimaced as his skin turned impossibly pale. He shrugged off her arm and rushed to the nearest trashcan. The sound of loud vomiting nearly turned her stomach. The people in line collectively grimaced.

“So...” Her smile faltered ever so slightly. “He's just a nervous flier.”

“And I'm Michelle Obama,” the woman said. “He's not getting on that plane.”

****

Henna pushed her way through the crush of humanity waiting on the next move of Hurricane Delores as she wound her way from her gate at Miami International Airport to the bar. After managing to secure a vodka tonic, she pulled her phone out of her bag. Simon answered after four rings.

“How are you?” she asked when he answered.

“I'm dying,” he groaned. “I'm staying at your place.”

“Why?” She scanned the bar, more out of habit than any real belief there might be something worth seeing in the overcrowded sports themed oasis of booze. On her second visual lap, her gaze landed on a man. A foxy, foxy, foxy man. He fiddled with his phone as he finished the contents of a rocks glass.

“Because nobody loves me and I had your spare keys in my car.” She didn't mind Simon staying at her place; so much as she didn't like anyone in her house. It had taken thought and consideration to arrange everything just the way she liked it. Before she left town, she had her routine for closing up the house, and when she returned, she'd know if anything had been disturbed. She'd become a creature of peculiar habits. The downside to having lived alone for so long.

“Elaborate,” she said. “Then I get to tell you about the evil gate agent and then the very hot—how do you say very hot man in Spanish? Because my eyes are feasting on one foxy Latino right now.”

“Uhh...caballero caliente? I don't know. Ask me how to ask someone if they've had a tetanus shot in Spanish. I can do that.”

“You're useless. You're the only person I know from Texas who doesn't speak Spanish.”

“Who else do you know from Texas?”

“Nobody. Never mind. What's up with Waverly?” Her foxy Latino ordered another drink from a female bartender who seemed oblivious to the fact there were other patrons. Easy to understand. He would have her undivided attention given an opportunity.

“Waverly finds me unpleasant. I went home, and she told me to get a hotel room until I wasn't foul anymore.” Simon's girlfriend was, in a word, a bitch. She wanted to marry a doctor, not the man.

“I'm sorry sweetie,” she said. “You can stay at my place for as long as you like.” After their brief flirtation, Simon had moved on into a relationship with a determined woman who worked to change him into her perfect man. Waverly would eventually push him down the aisle whether he wanted to go or not unless he somehow managed to escape. To his credit, Simon had resisted all of her efforts on every front for nearly five years. If he needed a place to stay, he could stay with her.

“I'm pathetic. My girlfriend won't let me in my home because I'm vomiting and crapping, and she's more worried about my fouling up the place than she is about my health and general well-being. I'm so afraid of being alone I've settled for that.”

“Stay at my place as long as you want.” Leave Waverly. You're too good for her.

“How was the flight?” Simon asked changing the subject.

“Voyage of the damned,” she said. “And it's still not over. I ran across Miami Airport like my ass was on fire only to get to my gate and find my flight is delayed. Understandably upset, I had a conversation with the gate agent that didn't go precisely how I would have liked it to.”

“You flip-out?”

“The gate agent threatened to put me on the no-fly list. He's an evil little troll.” She looked over her shoulder to the gate area. The agent stood at the desk staring blankly as a woman with a baby gesticulated and waved her arms as if threatening to throw the baby at him.

Please do not stick me next to the baby.

“I'm almost sorry I missed it. I haven't seen a good Henna flip-out in months. Word of advice…do not mess with the gate agents,” Simon warned her. “They have just enough power to make your life a temporary hell. They're like DMV people or the IRS. Just don't pester him or your luggage will end up in Bolivia.”

“That is why I have my dress for the wedding in my carry-on.” She lifted her hand to her mouth and started gnawing on a dry cuticle.

“You realize spending two thousand dollars on a dress for your sister's wedding is a symptom of a larger problem? I think you just need to admit you're taking Eden getting married before you a bit harder than you're acknowledging.”

The moment she caught herself biting her nails, she forced herself to stop. Eden's wedding had done what medical school couldn't do. It had turned her back into a nail biter. “It's stupid. This whole wedding is stupid. Who gets married after knowing someone for three months?”

“Lots of people that have very happy and loving marriages.”

“Would you marry someone after knowing them for three months?”

Waverly couldn't get Simon to marry her after years of consistent pressure. No one would get him down the aisle in three months. They were too much alike. Every stone needed to be unturned. Every possibility explored. It had taken Simon nine months to pick out his car and another three to decide on the paint. These were qualities she admired in him.

“If it were the right person, I would,” he said. “I've never been passionately in love with someone. If I found someone who I fell passionately in love with, I'd marry them in a second.”

“Why can't I find someone to fall passionately in love with?” She quickly and completely had fallen in lust with Caballero Caliente, but love eluded her. No matter how hard she tried to make her relationships perfect, they always ended.

“I don't know sweetheart,” he said. “Why can't I find someone to fall passionately in love with? Why do I torture myself by staying in a relationship that makes me miserable?”

“It's safe?”

“It’s safe,” he said. “Passionate love is dangerous and unpredictable. It requires a leap of faith. We are not leap of faith people. We're dither over paint swatches people.”

“How does one become a leap of faith person?”

Caballero Caliente spoke on his phone and smiled. He had lovely teeth. An odd thing to notice. She wouldn't have thought of herself as a teeth person. More of a legs or shoulders or arms person. Definitely a stomach person. No doubt the ass factored in. He laughed and it took a moment to realize he looked straight at her as he did so.

“I don't know,” Simon said. “You figure it out and let me know. What are you doing? Are you getting drunk? Just be careful. I missed a flight to Indonesia because I was in the bar getting slaughtered and missed the announcement.”

Henna looked over her shoulder to the gate again. The woman with the baby had handed the child over to a man. That or he had taken the child from her for its own safety. As she took the moment to see what someone looked like as they shrieked at a gate agent, she was doubly glad she had walked away when she had. “I can see the gate. Those people aren't going anywhere anytime soon. I'm lurking until I find an empty seat. I'm ready to pounce, I tell you. Pounce like a cat. Pounce like a cat on the caballero caliente. Reow. Maybe go sit on his lap. At least he has a seat.”

“Get comfortable. I'm watching Hurricane Delores. You might not be going anywhere for a long time. Got to love the Weather Channel. Only your sister would plan a wedding on an island in the Atlantic during hurricane season.”

“I love my sister,” she repeated for the millionth time since Eden had announced her spontaneous wedding two weeks earlier to a man she'd known for a total of ninety days. “I love my sister. I'm going to have a good time in Bermuda. I'm going to have fun and relax.” The words had become her mantra. “I'm going to meet a foxy man whose two best qualities are his abs and stamina. I may not have you to run interference between me and my family, but I'm a big girl.”

“How long after you arrive do you think it's going to take for Judith to ask you why we never got married?”

“I think she might break a new land speed record.”

“Do me a favor,” Simon said. “Go find a man and get serviced.” Simon knew how long it had been since she'd had the attention of a man. “Find a passionate amante.”

“An amante?”

“Lover, I think. Or almonds. I'm not sure. Ask me what placenta is in Spanish. That I do know.”

“So I could either end up with a snack or a man.”

“Do you really object to either one?”

“No.” She felt just a touch peckish. Almonds sounded good. So did a lover. It was win win.

“Go find a man right now and drag him into a utility closet and have your way with him. Go get the caballero caliente. He's stuck in the airport just as much as you are and probably just as bored as you are. He would be up for a little slap and tickle in a convenient, yet somewhat raunchy location, where there’s a tantalizing possibility you might get caught.”

“Are you drugged?” Her gaze swept over the man again. He watched her intently. Getting caught staring thrilled more than embarrassed her.

“Just a little,” Simon said. “Okay, maybe a lot, but I'm serious, you giant chicken. You need a man. I can feel how uptight you are. Your tension is radiating through the phone. For the love of god, Henna, do something wild for once in your micromanaged life.”

“Just because I don't live my life spontaneously doesn't mean I micromanage.” She stopped talking, then started laughing along with Simon. “Okay, I can be a little neurotic at times.”

“A little?” Simon laughed then groaned. “I got to go, babe. The bathroom is calling. I love you. Have a great time in Bermuda. Go sidle on up to Caballero Caliente and ask him to give you a Spanish lesson. And by Spanish lesson, I mean get naked. Just in case you didn't understand.”

“Oh, I got you. I'm not going to get naked with a total stranger, but I appreciate the potential for living out a fantasy.”

“You don't have to get naked with the guy,” Simon told her. “But that doesn't mean you can't pretend you wouldn't.”

She snapped her phone shut after saying goodbye, then edged around the bar to where Caballero Caliente sat. Using elbows and determination, Henna found a standing spot at the bar next to the man to call her own. She gave him a smile before turning to the bartender who took an inordinate amount of interest in the man she thought of as her Caballero Caliente. When logic and the rules of waiting politely for the next turn dictated she should be next, the bartender ignored her as she moved on to another male customer.

“Have my chair.” The man spoke a smooth and sufficiently accented English, making him automatically sexy. She smiled at what the universe offered up. He met every requirement on her mental list of perfect for a purely sexual relationship for a predetermined length of time. That time being both short and hot. Dark eyes, dark hair, mid-thirties, fit, foreign, and well dressed. The tea-dyed linen suit coupled with a pristine white shirt was sophisticated and expensive looking. Perfect. “I was just leaving.”

“Pity,” she said. “You look about as bored as I feel. I thought we could commiserate.”

“Or I could stay and we could have a drink together.” He stood from his stool, shifting places with her before someone else could steal the coveted spot. She added tall to the list of what made him an ideal temporary lover.

“Thank you.” She adjusted her ass on the seat, then turned to her new friend, tall and handsome with deep brown hair. Eyes the color of coffee beans were not diminished by the fine lines that proved he smiled often. His most handsome trait had to be the air of confidence that surrounded him. No boy still trying to find his place in the world could ever seem so confident in his own skin. She gestured to herself. “Henna.”

“Eduardo. What will you have?” he asked with a vintage Ricardo Montalban accent. He raised a finger and hooked the bartenders attention as if he were the only person at the crowded bar.

“Whatever you're having.” She smiled as she mentally checked her posture and adjusted her legs to show them off as best she could. A few moments later, she had a glass of ruby Port in front of her and Eduardo's undivided attention. A bad morning turned into a promising afternoon. “Thank you.”

“You are very welcome,” he replied.

As he gave her a steely stare of intense passion, her body began to tremble, and heat radiated from her core. She feared if she looked him in the eye for long, he would see how his attention affected her. So in an effort to temper the sudden longing that had gripped her body, she studied her drink. A small voice that sounded a lot like Simon's taunted her. Chicken. Big, yellow chicken that hasn't had sex in months or done anything even remotely daring in a decade.

Shut up. She grabbed onto the adventurous and daring part of her personality, pulled up, and forced it forward. You don't know this man. He doesn't know you. As far as he knows, you are sexy, fulfilled, adventurous, and daring. There is no reason you cannot be that person for an hour or two while you're waiting for an airplane. Be awesome, Henna! Be fabulous! You don't have to have sex with this man, but you can make him think you would, given the right opportunity.

“So,” she said. “Have you ever fantasized about picking up a total stranger in an airport and having your way with them?”

“What makes you think I haven't picked up a total stranger in an airport and had my way with them?” The look in his eyes and the tilt of his mouth told her what she needed to know. They were equally bored and up for a bit of naughty, flirty talk that might or might not lead to something more, depending on the direction Hurricane Delores decided to take.

The who of her fantasy had been sorted out. The how and the where could be problematic, but nothing was impossible. She had credit cards and determination. She lacked courage. That could be found in the depths of her soul. No one, especially Eduardo, knew who she was. At that moment, she could be anyone. Even someone with the confidence to take a risk and do something outrageously bold.

“Have you?” She returned his look.

“No,” he said. “But there is a first for everything. You are very beautiful and my flight is delayed.” He reached up and his knuckles ran down her jaw. “Perhaps we can have a drink or two and discuss the nature of this fantasy of yours.” He picked up his glass and raised it to his mouth.

At that moment, she got a good look at his hand. “Or, perhaps not.” She reached over, lifted his hand, and examined the pronounced tan line. “I'm not blind. At my age, a girl knows what to look for.” A white ring around his finger where a wedding band had recently been told her more than a month of casual chat in a bar could. Married men equaled bad mojo in her mind. She'd walk under a ladder or even own a black cat, but flirting with a married man, forget sleeping with one, just invited bad karma. “Married men are just one stone I prefer to leave unturned.”

“I'm not married.” The words came out simply, without being forced or sounding practiced. “I kept the ring on longer than I probably should have. It was time to take it off.”

Divorced. Of course. Because that was where life had taken her. Men, in the age range to be interesting to her, were either divorced or married. The ones who were still single were usually single for a reason. Generally not a good one. Not that she was in a position to judge, but she did.

“How long have you been divorced?” Why did she ask that? Why? The last thing she wanted was for him to be thinking about his divorce and his ex-wife.

He looked into his drink for a moment, gave the cubes a swirl, and then finished off the contents. “Two years.”

“Eduardo!” An older man with graying black hair and the smell of money about him approached. “Commo estas?” He smiled at her as the two men greeted each other warmly.

As she spoke about three words of Spanish, Henna silently sighed in despair as her fantasy man was pulled back into reality.

“Henna.” Eduardo gestured to the older man. “This is my very good friend Rodrigo Sandoval.”

“Hola.” She waved a little as she smiled.

Rodrigo gestured to himself, then Henna, then Eduardo as he spoke rapidly in Spanish.

Eduardo responded with a hand gesture then turned to Henna. “You speak Spanish?” Eduardo asked hopefully. “Perhaps you could join us?”

“Taco, hola, cabana, margarita, amante.” Around them the bar began to clear out. To be safe she leaned over and looked at her gate. Still full of people.

“Amante?”

“Doesn't that mean almonds?”

“No.” He smiled as if she perhaps both perplexed and amused him. Not a look men ever gave her.

“Good to know.” She would have to tell Simon what amante meant. “I don't speak Spanish. I'm sorry.”

Eduardo looked genuinely disappointed. Precisely how she felt. ”I’m so sorry, but you'll have to excuse me. I am afraid I will be disappointing you. Perhaps destiny will bring us together again.”

“Destiny?” She smiled a little. “Really?”

“Don't you believe in destiny?”

“As a rule, no.”

“Perhaps something will change your mind.” He then did the impossible and lifted her hand to kiss her knuckles. “You are very beautiful, and it is not with a little bit of regret that I am going to say goodbye. I have not seen my very old friend in many years and will perhaps not see him again in many more. As much as I would like to stay here with you, I am going to walk with him down to his gate. Maybe with some luck, you'll be here when I return.” He put a large bill on the bar then gathered his things. With a smile and a nod, he left with the other man.

The male bartender in a black uniform T-shirt with the bar logo stretched across his impressive pecs stopped in front of her. “You know, if you want to fulfill some stranger in an airport fantasy, I have a backroom....”

“Oh, my god,” she moaned. Her cheeks flamed and her mouth formed an O. “You...you didn't hear that?”

“Oh, I sure did,” he smiled. “So that backroom?”

She openly checked him out. Clearly, the guy spent an inordinate amount of time both at the gym and on personal grooming. If Simon were with her, she'd put money on the bar that he was a model. Then Simon would take the bet and lose. Henna could spot a model, actor, or musician from a hundred paces. Especially when she was itching for a man.

“What's your name?” She looked into eyes the color of honey in the sun then down at his full mouth that was perhaps a touch too pink and girlish. He just didn't do it for her. Not even a little. Odd. Normally she'd be all over a man like him. He was even a bartender. Perfect. Just the sort of man who presented absolutely no risk of emotional attachment, but a great deal of fun.

“Anton,” he said.

“Anton. Nice.” She smiled a little. “I'm flattered, but I'm going to pass.”

Anton, with his exceptional biceps and his practically perfect jawline, pouted. Eduardo would never pout. At least, she guessed he would never pout. The fantasy of Eduardo held more appeal than the reality of Anton. Anton was sexy. Eduardo was sexy and sophisticated. Her taste in men had suddenly evolved. She would take the more mature and refined Eduardo over the younger and more disposable Anton anytime.

“I have a break coming up, and I just got a fifty dollar tip. How much for a blow?”

Henna glared at him, lips curling, eyes narrowing as her head put the dots together. “Do you think I'm a hooker?” Did Eduardo think she was a hooker? A naughty thrill shimmied up and down her body. Now that would be a fun bit of fantasy…role-playing.

“Aren't you?” the bartender asked. “Because I'm pretty sure your Colombian friend thought you were a hooker.”

Did he? Her grin widened and she nearly laughed. Too bad he had to go. She picked up her phone and texted Simon. Caballero Caliente thought I was a hooker.

“How do you know he's Colombian?” she asked Anton as she held her phone waiting on a response.

Awesome! Tell me you went for it. Please. I live vicariously through you.

“The accent,” he said. “You do know that all Spanish speakers don't sound alike, right? There's a difference between how Colombians speak Spanish and Cubans speak Spanish.”

“Are you Cuban?”

“Everyone in Miami is Cuban.” The meticulously groomed Anton, with his exceptional musculature, clearly spent a great deal of time on his appearance. He moved around the section of the now nearly empty bar near her with the pretense of cleaning and stocking, but with the same actions and stances of a silverback gorilla trying to attract a mate. She watched him as he flexed and moved, feeling like an anthropologist observing apes in the wild. No appeal. Not even a little.

She looked at her phone, and the message she automatically typed to Simon before she hit send.

No :(. He had to go before we could negotiate a price and a service. Totally bummed! He was hot and sexy. Officially ruined me for lesser men regardless of the amount of time they spend in the gym. Is it weird that I would have been happy to pretend to be a hooker? Because it does feel kind of kinky.

“Everyone in Miami is Cuban? I didn’t know this,” she said to Anton after the message was sent. He did nothing for her. The moment had passed anyway. If Eduardo returned, so would the moment. Could it be possible that the Anton's of the world no longer held universal appeal? That was a sobering thought.

“Be right back,” Anton told her then walked to the other side of the bar to serve some patrons.

Her phone chirped. A text from Simon fills the screen.

You are repressed. Have you never role-played? Not even once? Honestly... You really need to get out more often. I would pay Waverly thousands—no I'd actually buy her that car she wants—if she'd come up to me in a bar and come on to me like a well-practiced escort.

Henna texted back. The cute bartender offered me $50 for a blow.

LOL!!! Are you going to go for it?

Anton returned to her as her fingers sent a response to Simon's text. Foxy bartender just does nana mucho for me. Sad :( Oh!! Amante does NOT mean almonds.

“Do you want another? On me. I don't believe you're not a hooker, but I get that you'd rather go for the big money client rather than a fifty. It's possible he might be back. He was pretty into you. Looked like he had a lot of money, too.”

Her phone buzzed. Did you get his number?

No. I'm supposed to wait for destiny to bring us together again.

LOL!!! Henna could hear Simon laughing in her thoughts. She missed him already. But if he had been with her, she never would have approached Eduardo. Life had its payoffs.

“If I were a hooker, I'd charge a whole lot more than fifty to blow someone.” She smiled at Anton as she raised her empty glass. “I'll take that drink.”

“You got it.” He walked away from her with the empty glass.

She sent Simon another text. How much does a professional blowjob generally cost? Because I'm thinking $50 might be a little insulting.

Anton returned with a filled glass lined with mint leaves. “Mojito. Cuban like me. You like Latin men?”

“Who doesn't?”

“How much do you charge? Just curious. I've always thought about hiring a real professional. Just for the experience. As a rule, I don't need to pay for it, but I figure you only live once. Right?”

Her phone chirped. Under normal circumstances, she wouldn't divide her attention between her phone and the person she conversed with, but Simon was a part of the conversation from her perspective. Besides, he didn't feel well and probably needed some cheering up.

Not that I know from personal experience... Henna rolled her eyes as she read. There were things Simon didn't want her to know, but that she knew anyway. But you have to pay for the entire hour. This would be around $300 for a girl of your caliber.

She glanced from her phone to the bartender. “More than that tip you received,” she said with a saucy wink.

Pretending to be someone else might be the ticket to resetting some of her fairly deeply entrenched habits. Simon was right. She needed to break out of her claustrophobic life for even just a moment. He was no better than she, but that's what friends did. They helped each other especially when they couldn't help themselves.

There is a compliment in there somewhere! :)

Anton grinned. “I knew you were a hooker.”

Absolutely! Falling asleep. Let me know if destiny makes reappearance.