“No one could hear me over the thumping bass, and I quickly gave up trying to be polite. This was why I tended to stay away on Saturday nights—louder cover bands, more oblivious drunks. I was breathless by the time I’d elbowed through the sweating crowd. Despite the palpable sense of impatience among the thirsty, one of the bartenders was bobbing his head along with the beat. He smiled widely when he noticed me. After serving up beers, he took a moment to make me a weak mojito—just how I liked ...it—and slid it across the counter. I started digging in my jeans for money, but he shook his head firmly. He was cute, with inky black eyes and dimples he flashed the way some men flaunted gold watches. He was more than cute, but he wasn’t Corbin. Therefore, he wasn’t my type. Weeks earlier, on a slow Tuesday night, we’d chatted a bit. I’d quickly told him I was seeing someone. He’d nodded and smiled, but from then on, he comped me drinks most nights. He probably thought I’d invented Corbin, and now he planned to win me over with free booze.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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