thankfully limited. Only one particularly memorable encounter springs to mind, when I consumed bad something—tacos, tequila, you name it—south of the border.
You want me to lie to the poor girl?
Hazel fires right back: Get off your high horse, Archangel. Or just puke and skip the talking.
She follows this up with a GIF of a cartoon character spewing a green tsunami on a red-checkered tablecloth. My stomach lurches, preparing a sympathy hurl, but Hazel’s still typing.
Option B: Spew embarrassing personal details until she runs screaming.
This one feels more honest, but hardly less unpleasant. I eye the ladies’ room door, but there’s no sign of May. The problem with being a billionaire bachelor is that I have to worry about internet gossip sites. TMZ would have a field day with the details of my divorce, for example.
Option C, Hazel texts, I’ll crash and drag you away. Do you want me to be crazy ex-girlfriend, ex-wife, or ex-hookup?
I go for the honest answer.
Just come.
Hazel doesn’t miss a beat.
That’s what SHE said.
CHAPTER FIVE
RESCUE ARRIVES THIRTY very long minutes later. May and I have finished our dinner and shifted to the bar. The pink cards come with us, although I’ve given up hope for the night. The bar’s great, though. It’s classic: polished, wood countertop, tall stools and shelf after mirrored shelf of liquor bottles. I count ten different kinds of whiskey alone. In the mirror, May and I make a cute couple. The bartender winks at me and gives me a thumbs-up. I ignore his knowing smile and focus on my date, who is casting my astrological chart on a cocktail napkin and admiring my love line. It’s bold. Or strong. Or something. I don’t snort because that would be rude.
“What’s my future hold, love?” Our bartender leans in, subtly cutting me out with his shoulder as he smiles at May. “I could use a good heads-up.”
May asks when his birthday is and he winks at her. “Tomorrow.”
He’s probably lying, but May rolls with it and starts scratching on a new napkin. All around us, the bar is full of happy, drinking, chatting people who have plenty of things to say, but I feel like an observer. The bartender is promising May that he can guess what she’ll like. I’m not sure he means a particular drink, but she accepts something pink and frozen with a happy smile. He makes her feel special.
I’m pretending an all-encompassing interest in the drinks menu when May’s eyes widen almost comically. I follow her gaze instinctively, but then her face is obscured by the blonde who drops onto my lap. My brain promptly short-circuits because my new companion wiggles as she starts to slide down my thighs. She has a fabulous ass. Thighs. I mean, honestly, the whole package meets with my enthusiastic approval, even when she wraps her arms around my neck like ivy on an oak. For the first time tonight, anticipation buzzes through my veins. And other parts.
“You owe me,” the blonde whispers against my ear.
Hazel.
Of course it’s Hazel.
I do owe her, although I suspect we should have agreed on a less open-ended plan. I also had no idea that Hazel kept a stash of emergency wigs in her massive walk-in closet. She turns with another hard-on-inducing wiggle until she’s facing May, who is still staring. I don’t think she saw our date ending this way, either. Hazel is wearing a pair of skinny jeans, white Fendi boots that stop just below the knee and a fitted white T-shirt with a black-Sharpied White Knight scrawled across her boobs. Since we’re separated by mere inches, I can tell her eyes are lit up with impish glee. She has that wicked, hot-biker-chick thing going on for her—the kind of woman who graced my teenage bedroom walls and who I jerked off to more than I care to admit in high school. How is this woman possibly single?
“Excuse me?” May crumples up the bartender’s future, sounding rather proprietary. Yeah. She’s definitely decided I’m her billionaire bachelor.
Hazel leans forward. Instinctively, my hands cup her ass because she’s straddling my legs and my knees... Well, I’m pretty certain I’m not supposed to notice what they’re pressing against. Let’s just say it feels amazing.
Look, I know this is a bad idea. I should just tell May that I don’t think we’re a match and that we should get on with our separate lives.
But I might be a little too aware that May’s been fantasizing about her billionaire date night. If I’d