Page 10 of Single Mom's Guide to Love

“The complete opposite,” he says. “I was a shy, nerdy boy who’d rather play with his video games and build Lego sets than play outside. My glasses were thick and my know-it-all was thicker.”

“That I can see,” I say, though I do wonder when the shy nerdy boy found his way to a gym. “When did you move to the States? Or are you only visiting?”

Was that me prying a little? Yes. But did I do it cleverly? Also yes. I guess I haven’t entirely lost my game.

“I actually came here from Birmingham for university,” he says. “That was eleven years ago and I’ve been here ever since.”

I know I’m drunk. And math has never been my strong suit. But I’m staring at him, and if he came here for university at eighteen…and that was eleven years ago…

Carry the one…subtract the smolder…

“How old are you, Logan?”

A blush creeps on his cheeks. “I actually just celebrated my twenty-ninth birthday.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” I whisper, all but snatching the fresh martini from the bartender’s hands and take a big gulp, nearly finishing it in one go.

“What’s the problem?”

I shake my head so much it might spin off. “Now youreallycan’t call me that. I’m a creepy old lady.”

I’ve been fantasizing about this man all night. I wanted him to kiss me. Dare I say I’ve even been flirting with him in my own way.

And for what? For me to find out that I technically could have babysat for him, if I would’ve been in England?

“Not creepy at all,” he says. “I like to say I’m a good judge of character.”

I shoot him a glare. “I’m a thirty-six-year-old single mom, Logan. There should be no world where I’m talking to, or being called Love, by a man in his twenties.”

“Late twenties.”

Did he just make a joke? This isn’t the time for jokes.

“Logan, I’m closer to forty than thirty. No way should I be drinking with a man who still has a two as the first number of his age.”

“It’s just a number.”

I give him the same look that I give to my son when he’s being ridiculous. “Are you going to tell me next that ‘you’re only as young as you feel?’ Oh wait, I know. You’re going to tell me how mature you are for your age. And you said you weren’t cliché…”

I check my phone again, really wanting there to be a message from the hotel about my room, when I feel Logan’s hands on my legs, turning me toward him. As soon as I’m stopped and facing his direction, he jumps up from it and holds out his hand for me.

“Dance with me.”

“What?” I look to the pseudo dance floor, where no one is dancing. And you can barely hear the piano over the crowds of the guests at the bar.

“Come on,” he says, jerking his head toward the piano. “I need to stretch my legs and you need to get out of your head. Plus, asking you to randomly dance in the middle of a hotel bar is the least cliché thing I could’ve done.”

I look to the makeshift dance floor then back to the man who is apparently not only young, but slightly delusional. “I’m not dancing with you.”

“May I ask why not?”

“Oh, let me count the ways!” I hold out my hand for extra emphasis. “One, no one is dancing, and we’ll look ridiculous. Two, we’ll lose our spots at the bar, and this is prime seating. Three, it’s one thing for me to mildly flirt with you. It’s a whole other for me to dance with you. That’s a step toward Cougarville I’d rather not take. So you can stand and stretch your tree-trunk legs and I’ll sit here and finish this martini.”

The sexy smirk that forms is not the reaction I was going for or expecting. “You’re flirting with me?”

“Not the point.”

“Oh, but it is,” he says. “Now we really have to dance.”

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