“Mmm, no love for the hometown?”

“No, Greenville was a great town to grow up in, but it’s sort of like the Hotel California. People check in, but they almost never leave. If all you want out of life is to get married and have babies, it’s the place to be. But . . . that wasn’t what I was looking for.”

“What are you looking for, Dee?”

She thinks for a moment before she answers. “I want . . . life. Newness. Discovery. Change. It’s why I like the city so much. It’s alive—never stagnant. You can walk down a block and go down that same block a week later and it’ll be totally different. New people, new sights and smells—the smells aren’t always good, but that’s a small price to pay.”

I chuckle.

Then she goes on. “My mom used to say I reminded her of a dog on a leash that never learned how to heel. Always pulling on the chain, raring to go. There’s a country song with lyrics I like: ‘I don’t want easy, I want crazy.’ ” She shrugs, a little shyly. “That’s me.”

Everything she said—they’re my favorite parts about the city I grew up in too. Life is too damn short to stay safe, to stay the same.

My cell phone buzzes, but I ignore it. Checking your phone in the middle of a conversation, even if it’s with a one-nighter, is just rude. Low class.

Dee asks me what my Zodiac sign is, but I make her tell me hers first. Some people are really into signs—I’ve been ditched on more than one occasion by a horrified Leo or Aquarius when they found out I’m a Capricorn. Since then, I’m not above fudging my birth date if needed.

In this case, I didn’t have to. Dee’s a Scorpio, which is supposed to be super hot with Capricorns in the sack. Personally, I think the whole thing is a crock of shit. But, if you want to play, you’ve got to know the rules of the game. Including potential fouls.

Dee nurses her second drink as the conversation turns toward family and friends. Without getting too deep, she tells me about Billy, her more-like-a-brother cousin, and her single mother who raised them both. She touches on her lifelong friendship with Kate Brooks and a few surprising wild-child incidents during their teen years that are just too embarrassing not to mention to Kate at the office tomorrow.

I fill her in on Drew and Steven and Alexandra and how growing up with them saved me from ever feeling like an only child. I tell her about the coolest four-year-old I know, Mackenzie, and that I would hang with that kid every day of the week if I could.

By the time I finish my fourth beer, two and a half hours have flown by. When Dee hits the bathroom, I whip out my phone.

I have six texts. They’re all from Steven.

Shit. Call of Duty. I forgot.

They vary in their degrees of panic. Wanna see?

Dude ur late—starting without you

**

Come on, man, I’m in the shit and outnumbered. Where the hell r u?

**

Where’s the goddamn aerial support? My men are dying out there!

**

Not going out like this—taking as many of them with me as I can. Ahhhhhhhh!

**

Thanks a lot, dumbass. I’m dead. If you make a move on my widow I’ll haunt you.

And finally, the last one just says:

Fucker.

I laugh out loud and send him an apologetic text, telling him something suddenly came up. Steven’s great at reading between the lines:

You mean your dick suddenly came up. What happened to bros before hoes? You owe me. I expect payment in the form of babysitting hours so I can take my wife out . . . or stay in. ;)

Personally, I think he spends too much time with his wife as it is—as demonstrated by the winky face in his text.

Dee comes back from the bathroom and stands close to my chair. “You want to get out of here?”

Yes, please.

With a devastating grin, I answer, “Absolutely. You want to go to my place? I’d love to show you the view.”

She glances at my crotch. “What view would that be?”

“The kind you’ll never want to stop looking at, baby.”

She chuckles. “I was thinking more along the lines of dancing?”

“Then we’re thinking alike. Horizontal is my favorite dance.”

She runs her hand up the sleeve of my black button-down shirt. “The vertical kind is a nice prelude—gets me in the mood. There’s a club around the corner from my apartment. Their Wednesday night DJ is the shit. You want to come with me, Clit-boy?”

I put my hand over hers and rub my thumb slowly against it. “I don’t think I like that nickname.”

She shrugs unapologetically. “Too bad. You never get a second chance to make a first impression. You’re Clit-boy until you give me a reason to think of you as something else.”

I lean in closer. Goose bumps rise on the flesh of her chest as my breath tickles her ear. “By the end of this night, I’ll have you calling me ‘God.’ ”

Her breathing picks up slightly, and the pulse point at her neck thumps faster. I want to put my mouth on it, suck on the skin and experience her taste.

But I don’t get the chance.

Delores steps back, her amber eyes practically glowing with anticipation. And she commands, “You pay the tab, I’ll get the taxi.”

Independence in a woman is damn sexy. Only insecure losers get turned on by a chick who clings like you’re the oxygen she needs to survive. Although it’s obvious Delores is the stand-on-her-own-two-feet kind of girl, I like that she lets me pay the tab. I would’ve insisted on it anyway. Opening a door, paying a bill: These are not digs against a lady’s capabilities. Sometimes a guy just wants to do the old-fashioned thing.