Trillion - Winter Renshaw Page 0,87
days.”
“Same.” He sips his drink, something amber in a crystal tumbler. The kind of liquor you savor drop by pricey drop, the kind you don’t rush to finish. “Where did you say you worked again?”
“Phoenix.” I clear my throat. Nothing worse than a man who asks questions but doesn’t take the time to listen.
“No, I remember that part,” he proves me wrong. “I meant where? What company?”
“The Fletcher Firm.” I lie for safety reasons.
I don’t know this man from Adam—no need to give him Google ammo.
“Kind of young to be an actuary, aren’t you?”
His next question catches me off-guard, and I nearly choke on my pinot. Most men—the ones laser focused on securing a piece of ass for the night—rarely remember what I do for a living once they’ve asked me. And the ones that do, have no idea what an actuary is or the education and tests that go into becoming one.
“I am young for an actuary, yes,” I say. I turn my attention toward him without thinking twice. Big mistake. His hazel eyes glint, focused on me. My stomach tightens in response. “I fast-tracked.” Taking a sip, I add, “I don’t recommend it unless you’re willing to sacrifice your social life—or any kind of life you may have—for the majority of your twenties.”
So much of life passed me by. Semesters blurred into one another. Weekend invites were turned down in favor of studying for the next exam. In the end, I was racing to a finish line for no other reason than it felt like a safe choice in a world filled with so much uncertainty.
Go to college. Get a career. Everything else will fall into place …
“You love it though, right?” he asks. “It was worth it?”
I nod. “I do love it.”
Whether it was worth fast-tracking is another thing. If I could go back and do it differently, if I could slow down and spend more time with my sister before her unexpected passing, I’d do it in a heartbeat.
He covers my hand with his palm for half of a second before waving to the bartender. “Your drink is low.”
“No, no. I’m good,” I say, shaking my head at the bartender to cancel the order. “I’m going to head out soon.”
The man checks his watch—a reflective silver piece with an oversized bezel and a simple, classic face—before wrinkling his nose. “It’s only nine-thirty …”
For a second, I imagine his wife gifting him with that timepiece on their first anniversary. Or the day of his first big promotion. Or the day she told him she was pregnant.
Deep down, I know this is a story I’m telling to myself feel better for not taking a risk. At the end of the day we’re always justifying everything, all of the time, in our own individual ways.
I turn away from him and stare at the purple remnants in the bottom of my chalice.
One sip and it’s gone.
One sip and I’m out of here.
One sip and I’ll never see the man with the gold-flecked irises again.
I must admit, I’m quite flattered by the fact that out of all the lovely and beautiful women in this bar tonight, this dashing Adonis approached me.
“I realize I’m in a singles bar on a Friday night,” I say, “but I can assure you, you’d have better luck casting your line in another direction.”
He half-laughs. “What?”
“You’re fishing. You want sex.” I blink. “Not judging you. Just saying, you’re wasting valuable time and energy on me.”
His brows meet. His gaze snaps to my left hand. “You’re taken?”
I bite my lip, shake my head. “No.”
“Then, what? You aren’t into men?”
“I’m into men. I just don’t sleep with people I don’t know.” I sit taller. “I don’t do one night stands. Nothing personal.”
“Fair enough. Dare I ask why?” He squints, and for a second, I think he might be genuinely interested in my answer because he doesn’t take his attention off of me for one moment. I’m also impressed that he isn’t shrinking away from the sting of rejection or denying that he was, in fact, only after one thing.
The world needs more people like him—at least, assuming he’s every ounce the single, sex-prowling man he claims to be and not a married dad from the suburbs.
“A woman’s odds of orgasming during a hook-up with a stranger is a paltry twenty-two percent and the average duration of said encounter is seven minutes. I can do better on my own.
Not to mention, over forty percent of men have had dozens of