Page 2 of Single Mom's Guide to Love

Shit. Did he notice me watching? Is he buying me a drink so I stop ogling him? I guess there’s only one way to find out…

When I turn back to James Bond, I wasn’t prepared for his emerald green eyes to be staring at me. There are a few seats between us, but that doesn’t lessen their impact.

“Thanks, but you didn’t have to do that,” I say.

“I know.”

I was expecting some sort of pickup line, so his direct answer throws me. “Then why did you?”

He shrugs and takes another sip of his drink. “A beautiful woman at a bar should never pay for drinks.”

And there it is. The line. I knew it was coming sooner or later. Doesn’t matter if they’re broke boys trying to get you with a Smirnoff Ice and the promise of a fun night, or a gorgeousman with a panty-melting accent buying you overpriced airport cocktails in a custom suit, they all are made the same.

Smooth lines. Good smiles. A few drinks.

Next thing you know you’re marrying the wrong man for the wrong reasons, and you’re divorced before the ink is dry on the marriage license.

Okay, maybe that last part is just me, but I’ll shout from the rooftops about the first part.

“Thank you,” I say, not wanting to come off rude. “But I can afford my own drinks.”

“I know you can, Love,” he says, turning toward me. “Just because you can doesn’t mean you should.”

Wait…did he just call me…

“Love?”

Yes, I could have dissected the last part of his pickup line, but for some reason I’m choosing to fixate on that one word. For one, I don’t do pet names. I think they’re stupid and juvenile. Second, I need to react angrily because him saying that one little word made me feel a very inconvenient way. Especially coming from a stranger.

“My apologies,” he says, almost bashfully. “What would you prefer I call you? Ma’am? Mrs.?”

I feel my face turn red. And also give him credit for sneakily asking if I was married. “Donotcall me ma’am. And I’m not a Mrs. Not anymore.”

I watch as the grin grows on his annoyingly handsome face. “Then ‘Love’ it is.”

I start to protest—my mouth is open and everything—but for some reason I don’t. Why don’t I? No man calls Maeve Banks “Love.” Or any other name, for that matter.

I shouldn’t like it.

I don’t like it.

Except I kind of do.

No! I don’t! What the hell is wrong with me? I don’t get butterflies in my stomach over a pet name. Even if it does come with a sexy accent. Maybe it’s that accompanied by his bright, yet soft smile and broad shoulders that could pass as a brick wall. Or the leathery, smooth cologne that I’m starting to get a hint of.

I blame the Jack Daniels. I just had to have a double…

“Or,” he continues, sliding over a seat so there is only one between us. “I could call you by your actual name.”

The second not-awful pickup line snaps me back to my senses.

“You seem very nice, and thank you for the drink,” I begin. “But I’m going to be heading to my gate soon. We don’t need to go through that.”

He shakes his head as he takes a sip of his whiskey. “All flights are about to be grounded. Huge storm is about to pass through.”

I lift an eyebrow. “And how do you know that? Do you moonlight as a meteorologist?”

God, I need him to quit smiling like that. It’s a grin that’s filled with mischief and flirtation and charm.

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