The Morning After – Chapter 2 – One More
I don’t know who invented the phrase one more drink, but that person deserves to be prosecuted.
Because it’s never one.
Especially when the whiskey is good, the company is better, and you have absolutely nowhere to be the next morning.
Well, technically, I had the gym at five.
But that was a problem for future me.
And future me could go fuck herself.
“So,” Liam said, refilling my glass, “what brings you to this wonderful event?”
“Money.”
He laughed.
“I’m serious.”
“So am I. I work in sales. They send me to places like this to make friends with people who have budgets.”
“Sounds romantic.”
“You have no idea. Sometimes they even give me purchase orders.”
“Flowers?”
“Overrated.”
“Jewelry?”
“Depends on the margin.”
He shook his head, smiling.
“What about you?” I asked.
“Business.”
“Wow. Mysterious.”
“You said money. I said business.”
“Mine was an honest answer.”
“So was mine.”
Fair enough.
I took another sip.
We were still on the terrace, although most people had gone back inside. Someone had abandoned a half-empty glass on a nearby table, and the music from the reception was getting progressively worse.
Liam leaned against the railing.
“Do you actually enjoy these things?”
“Conferences?”
“Yeah.”
“I enjoy getting paid to attend them.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“Then no.”
He laughed.
“I like the business part. I like meeting people who know what they’re talking about. I like closing deals. What I don’t like is spending twelve hours pretending every conversation is fascinating.”
“You’re not very good at pretending.”
“Excuse me. I’m excellent at it. I’ve been smiling professionally since eight this morning.”
“Should I be offended that you’re not smiling now?”
“Are you paying me?”
“Not currently.”
“Then no free samples.”
He laughed so hard he nearly spilled his drink.
I liked that.
Actually, I was beginning to like quite a few things about him.
His smile, for example.
The way he listened without waiting for his turn to talk.
His hands.
I had noticed those almost immediately.
Big hands. Long fingers. A watch that probably cost more than my first car.
And he smelled good.
Not aggressively good, like a man who’d emptied half a bottle of cologne before leaving his room.
Just good enough that I kept noticing whenever he leaned closer.
Which was happening more often.
“So, you’re a saleswoman,” he said.
“Sales representative. Saleswoman sounds like I’m going door to door selling vacuum cleaners.”
“Would you be good at it?”
“Terrifyingly.”
“Sell me something.”
I looked at him.
“Seriously?”
“Absolutely.”
“Fine. What do you need?”
“Nothing.”
“Perfect. My favourite kind of customer.”
He smiled.
“How does that work?”
“I convince you that you have a problem you didn’t know existed.”
“And then?”
“Then I sell you the solution.”
“Sounds dangerous.”
“Only if you have a credit card.”
He looked down at his glass.
“Well, you’ve already convinced me the whiskey was a problem.”
“And look at that. You found a solution all by yourself.”
“With considerable expense.”
“Oh, please. You look like you’ll survive.”
He tilted his head.
“Do I?”
I looked him over deliberately.
White shirt. Expensive watch. Good shoes. Very good shoulders.
“Financially? Yes.”
“And otherwise?”
I smiled.
“Still evaluating.”
He held my gaze.
“Take your time.”
Oh, he was good.
Annoyingly good.
I took another sip to give myself something to do.
The terrace was nearly empty now. The air had gotten colder, but between the whiskey and the conversation, I barely noticed.
At some point, Liam moved closer.
Just enough that our shoulders touched.
Neither of us moved away.
“You’re cold,” he said.
“I’m fine.”
“Your hands are freezing.”
“Are you always this observant?”
“Only when something interests me.”
I turned to look at him.
“Was that a line?”
“Was it working?”
“Unfortunately.”
He laughed.
And there it was.
That little moment when a perfectly ordinary conversation stops being ordinary.
I knew he was flirting.
He knew I knew.
And I was doing absolutely nothing to discourage it.
I checked the time.
11:46 p.m.
“Shit.”
“What?”
“I was going to leave two hours ago.”
“Bad company?”
“Terrible. Some guy keeps giving me expensive whiskey.”
“Sounds awful.”
“You have no idea.”
He looked toward the doors.
“Want to go somewhere warmer?”
“Are you inviting me to another bar?”
“No.”
I waited.
He didn’t elaborate.
I appreciated that.
“What exactly are you inviting me to, Liam?”
He looked directly at me.
“My room is upstairs.”
Well.
There it was.
No ridiculous excuse about showing me the view.
No sudden interest in discussing business opportunities.
Just an invitation.
I looked at him for a second.
Then at my glass.
Then back at him.
“Do you have more of this whiskey upstairs?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
I handed him my empty glass.
“Because if I’m making a bad decision tonight, I’m not doing it on cheap alcohol.”
He laughed, put both glasses on the table, and offered me his hand.
I took it.
We walked through the hotel lobby together.
I was perfectly aware of what I was doing.
Thirty-seven years old.
Never married.
Fully capable of making my own decisions.
Including the questionable ones.
We reached the elevator.
He pressed the button.
I looked at him.
“Just so we’re clear, I don’t normally go to hotel rooms with men I met outside while begging for cigarettes.”
“Good to know.”
“Usually I make them buy me dinner first.”
“Should I order room service?”
“Depends.”
The elevator arrived.
We stepped inside.
He pressed the button for his floor.
The doors closed.
For approximately three seconds, we behaved like civilized adults.
Then I looked at him.
He looked at me.
“Fuck it,” I said.
And pulled him toward me.
Turns out, he was an excellent kisser.
Which was unfortunate.
Because at that point, I was already running out of reasons to behave.