Page 1 of Sexy Bad Neighbor

CHAPTER ONE

CHLOE

What am I doing here? Taco Tuesday? Seriously? Tacos are sloppy and delicious and it’s far too easy to eat too many. I’m not an overindulging kind of person. And I really hate contrived social situations.

But my boss said I need to do something to de-stress because otherwise I’m going to have a heart attack by the time I’m forty, and that isn’t as far away as I’d like it to be. Actually, he suggested I get laid, but I don’t do messy, nor do I do sex with strangers, and who has time to get to know someone? I suppose that’s ironic considering I’m about to walk into a room full of strangers and pretend I want to befriend them.

At least it’s supposed to be exclusively women at this shindig. Women don’t intimidate me, which is the only reason I agreed to James’s ridiculous idea. “Who knows,” he said earlier today as he pushed me out the door, “you might actually make a friend or two.”

“Maybe a new client,” was my response, and he’d rolled his eyes and told me not to return to the office without at least one outrageous story to tell.

I consider not opening the door, not stepping into the sports bar where a group of strangers are likely becoming friends over spilled guacamole and too much tequila. But I will never hear the end of it if I turn around now, and besides, I’m not a quitter, whether the task is climbing the corporate ladder or attending a stupid function I have no interest in.

So I grasp the pilsner glass-shaped door handle and walk into the dark, loud place that smells of nachos and spilled beer. This is not my scene.

Bitch face in place, I pause to let my eyes adjust to the dim lighting. I can feel gazes on me. Lecherous, sleazebag gazes. Guys with names like Paul and Chad and—the worst of them all—Marcus.

Conveniently, my bitch face is seriously scary, so they all leave me alone as I smooth the front of my silk skirt and straighten my already flagpole-like spine. Sticking my nose in the air, I strut through that bar like I own the place. Actually, one of my clients does, so I know there are a handful of semi-private rooms toward the back, and that’s the most likely location for this silly gathering I’m supposed to attend.

When I reach my destination, I note that semi-private means there’s a party on each side of a smaller bar area, with one bartender tending to both. He’s one of the tall, dark, and handsome types, so the females in one group, which appears to be some sort of birthday party, are all gathered around the wood and laminate boxing him in, trying to garner his attention. Several of them are doing that classic grab-a-guy’s-attention stance, leaning against the bar, resting on their elbows, which are pressed against their sides, so the girls are pushed up and together, no doubt providing the lucky tender plenty of fodder for his fantasies later tonight. Assuming, of course, he goes home alone, which doesn’t seem likely.

The other gathering is a bunch of bored-looking middle-aged women wearing expensive yet understated clothing and each holding a glass of wine in one hand. No margarita in sight, and the taco station is pristine, like everyone is afraid to touch it. I’ve been out of touch with the social scene for far too long if this is what a Taco Tuesday after work party looks like.

A young woman with blue hair and black lipstick separates herself from the birthday party and heads my way. I deliberately make eye contact. “What’s that party over there?” I ask, nodding at the other crowd.

She shrugs. “Some party for old, working women.” After giving me a quick once over, she adds, “No offense.” And then she hurries through the heavy wooden door.

“None taken,” I mutter while narrowing my eyes and watching the group of women who are probably just like me: Career-driven, single-minded, determined to shatter every glass ceiling we encounter. My stomach grumbles at the sight of all those delicious taco toppings, yet I know I will be just like all these other women and snub my nose at a perceived uncouth display.

I need wine if I’m going to make it through this shindig. Since he’s at least ten years younger than me, I don’t feel as intimated by the hot bartender as I might if he were closer to thirty-five, so I belly up and let out a shrill whistle to get his attention.

“What the fuck was that?”

I whip my head to the side, prepared to provide a tongue lashing to whomever dared approach me in a bar. Ugh. It’s another sexy guy. And sloppy. That shirt looks like he swiped it off the floor and dragged it over his shoulders as he made his way out the door without stopping to look in a mirror. And it’s flannel. Why won’t that particular fashion statement die?

In ten seconds flat, I’ve determined he is everything wrong with the male species, and he hasn’t even smiled at me yet. Actually, he’s looking at me like I’m a loon.

“What’s your problem?” Might as well get defensive right off the bat. That’ll scare him off for sure.

“I think you blew my eardrum with that whistle. What, do you train dogs for a living?” For emphasis, he grabs his earlobe and shakes it, like that’s going to do anything except draw my attention to his slightly too long hair and the glasses that frame his face way better than they should. He probably doesn’t even have a prescription. I bet he wears them deliberately to pick up women.

Not this woman.

“Do you have a better idea? In case you haven’t noticed, the bartender’s rather preoccupied at the moment.”

“I noticed. But I’ve also been to a bar before, so I know if I do this—” He pulls his wallet out of his pocket, giving me a glimpse of a far too tight ass under that wrinkled shirt, and then he waves a twenty in the air. Like a dog sniffing out a juicy steak, the bartender drops his entourage and hurries toward us. Tall, Dark, and Sloppy tosses a smirk my way while the younger version asks for his drink order.

“What are you drinking?” my worst nightmare asks. Why won’t he leave me alone? Can’t he see that I don’t remotely belong to that other party, so clearly I must be associated with the prim and proper ladies hovering in the other corner? And what guy in his right mind would want to hit on someone surrounded by other powerful women?

Except I’m not, because they are all clustered as far away from Wrinkled Hottie and the group of people clearly having a grand old time on the other end of the bar as they possibly can and still be in the same room.

“I can get my own drink.”

“You sure can. Although I’d do it while he’s standing here in front of you, because I don’t think your dog whistle is going to work once he heads back to his fan base.”

The bartender winks and grins, like we’re all in on some fabulous joke.

“The nicest red that comes by the glass. And it better not be house,” I mutter, even though I’d really rather have a Bombay and tonic. But everybody else is drinking wine, so I might as well make at least a small attempt to fit in.

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