Page 1 of Whiskey & Wreckage

Chapter One

POPPY WHITAKER

“I swear to God,I’m never dating again,” I mutter darkly to the bowl of peanuts sitting in front of me.

I toss one into my mouth and chew aggressively, glaring daggers at my blurry reflection in the mirrored shelves behind the bar. My makeup, meticulously applied not even two hours ago, is now a full-on crime scene. Mascara streaks, lipstick smudge, eyeliner in places eyeliner was never meant to be. Beautiful.

My phone buzzes again. Matt.

Of course it’s Matt.

I flip it facedown, jaw clenched. Seconds later, it vibrates again. My sister.

I don’t know which one I want to throw farther into traffic. I settle for flipping them both off mentally and unsharing my location with each of them. If they want to find me, they can hire a damn psychic.

Then I power the phone off and chuck it into the bottom of my bag like it personally betrayed me. Which… it kinda did.

The bartender, a silver-fox type with kind eyes and zero interest in small talk, slides another whiskey my way. Good man. Knows when a girl just wants to be left to spiral in peace.

“Men are assholes,” I announce.

He chuckles. “Most of us.”

I point at him, swaying slightly on my stool. “You seem nice. Don’t prove me wrong.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

I nod with exaggerated dignity. “Good.”

That’s when I feel it. A prickle at the back of my neck. The distinct sensation of someone watching me. Slowly, I turn my head and squint through the bar’s dim lighting.

There. Back booth. Black leather jacket. Broody eyes. Strong jaw. Smirk that saysI eat sarcasm for breakfast.

And he’s watching me like I’m the most entertaining train wreck he’s seen all week.

I narrow my eyes at him. “You have a problem?”

His brow arches. Not in an apologeticoops, In an I got caughtway, but like I’ve just become even more interesting. The bastard.

I reach into my bowl of peanuts, grab one, and chuck it at him.

It misses by a laughable margin, ricocheting off the back of a chair and skittering across the floor.

His smirk grows.

I hate him immediately.

He rises, slow and deliberate, like a lion stretching after a nap. He strolls over and slides onto the stool beside me, as if we’ve known each other for years.

He nods toward my snack massacre. “Careful. Peanuts don’t fight back.”

I glare. “Maybe I like a good fight.”

“I don’t doubt that,” he says, voice low and gravelly.

“What do you want?”

He shrugs one shoulder. “Entertainment. And I figured, why let the front row seat go to waste?”

---