Page 1 of Single Mom's Guide to Love

guide to love rule #3

Picking up a man at the bar is never a good idea. But a bar at the airport doesn’t count because airports are lawless societies.

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maeve

“Jack and Diet Coke,please. Actually, make it a double.”

The bartender listens and, most importantly, doesn’t judge as he sets the cocktail napkin in front of me and goes off to make my drink.

Now, I’ll usually have a drink before a flight—especially when I plan to take an in-flight nap—but a double is a lot even for me.

Then again, this week was a lot, so I think I’m justified. One would think the glamorous world of interior design is easy and wouldn’t require double pours. It’s just picking pillows and buying pieces of art, right?

Wrong.

This business trip started with four days in Miami, executing a job for a man who probably knows intimate details about how cartels work. That was followed by a quick pit stop in Charlotte for a consultation with a former client who just made partner at his law firm and wanted to spruce up his condo. This normally wouldn’t be stressful—he was easy enough to work with back in the day—but his new girlfriend was very opinionated.

And very wrong. Needless to say I politely declined that commission when she was unwilling to admit that teal blue andyellow floral wallpaper with pineapples mixed in was not a good idea for the living room.

After that debacle I headed to Atlanta for a three-day interior design and architecture conference where I was not only attending but also a panelist. I normally don’t go to things like that, but I’ve been wanting to branch out my connections in the industry and thought this would be a good way to do it. The only problem was that I’ve become very well known for what I do—and do well—so every conversation turned into them picking my brain about how to expand their services to men.

I guess that’s what I get for being Maeve Banks, Designer for the Rich and Douchey. And no, that’s not my title, just the one my sister Quinn wants me to use for the reality show she insists I pitch to a network. I’d call it more like “Maeve Banks comes up with another version of gray walls and black leather couches for pompous assholes with too much money.” I’ll admit that doesn’t have the same ring to it.

I smile at the bartender and take a sip of the drink he delivered as I let hysterical thoughts of a reality show pass through my mind. I’d be the worst reality star in the world. Unless there’s a market for cynical, Type-A women who roll their eyes when clients hit on her while also telling them they aren’t unique for wanting a wet bar to show off their scotch collection.

You’re not original, Carl. You’re just going through a midlife crisis.

As I look around the first-class airport lounge while I wait for my flight back to Nashville, all I see are the men who are my ideal clients, wearing custom suits and sipping on expensive whiskey. Some reading the financial section of newspapers because they want to show how intelligent they are, others scrolling on their phones to make sure their favorite stocks aren’t plummeting. Men who go out of their way to make sure the women they hit on see their expensive watches.

They’re all around me, but even if they weren’t, I could spot them a mile away. I’ve worked with enough to know the type. These men don’t balk at my consultant rates, because they want a stylish place to live and don’t know the difference between an ottoman and a duvet.

Then again, if these kinds of men didn’t exist, I wouldn’t have a job, which is why I might vent, but I’ll never be ungrateful. Would I love a change of pace? Absolutely. One can only design so many man caves before her head explodes. But on the other side of that coin, I’ve found a niche in a market that pays me well and keeps me busy. They have the means, I have the ability, and my son is going to one day go to college without a dime of financial aid.

That’s what I call wins all around.

“Whiskey. Neat please.”

I normally wouldn’t pay attention to a stranger’s drink order while sitting at a bar, but this is going to be the exception. And not just because we’re at an airport bar where rules don’t exist, but because the accent that I just overheard sent a tingle through me. I don’t know what it is about a British accent, but it’ll make me go from a put-together single mother to a thirsty, horny woman in two seconds flat.

I do my best to catch a glimpse of the man next to me, and thank God I wasn’t drinking at that moment because good Lord…I don’t know if I’ve ever seen a more attractive man in my life. With his looks and his accent he could be the next James Bond.

He can shake me, stir me, do whatever he wants to me…

I do my best to avert my eyes, but it’s no use. In my defense, he’s unbuttoning his navy-blue suit jacket, so it’s like he’s begging me to keep watching him. At least, that’s what I’m telling myself so I don’t feel like a gawker.

Even though I totally am.

He pulls back his arms to stretch, showcasing his muscled chest. I do a quick up and down on him, and even though he’s sitting, I can tell he’s well over six-foot. His dark hair is full, and if I was a woman who still had sex—I don’t because men are trash and I don’t have the time—I’d want to run my hands through it while he was sliding into me.

His jawline could cut glass and is clean shaven. The black-rimmed glasses he’s wearing fit his face perfectly, and it makes me wonder if he wears them all the time or if this is a special occasion. I have this instant image of him lying in bed, shirtless of course, wearing pajama pants and reading something serious likeThe Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire. And yes, I might be next to him with my latest thriller.

“Ma’am, would you like another?”

The bartender’s words snap me out of the delusion of reading in bed with this stranger. Because apparentlythat’swhat I fantasize about these days. “Yes, please.”

“Put it on my tab?”

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