Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

LAYLA

"What the fuck?" I exclaim as icy whiskey runs down the front of my now-ruined dress. Abruptly spinning on my bar stool, I'm suddenly even more irate at the fact that the asshole who bumped into me didn't even bother to stop to apologize. "Are you fucking serious?" I shout after him as he walks out the door.

"I'm so sorry about that." The bartender quickly hands me a dry towel to clean up while wiping up the bar before me. "Let me get you another. On the house."

"You don't have to. That asshole should be the one paying for it." I shake my head at her as I try to subtly soak up the whiskey trickling between my breasts and down my stomach.

Pouring another drink, the bartender smiles. "The boss would have my ass if I didn't cover your tab for the night."

"Really, you don?—"

"Shush." Jorge nudges me, clearly wanting to stay here and enjoy an evening of free drinks. Even if they are nothing but straight whiskey.

"Fine," I huff, tossing the towel on the bar. "It's not like I'm going anywhere else in this dress tonight."

First—this bar, filled with old men I would never go home with.

Then—a drink tipped down my dress.

Any plans I had of finding someone to go home with tonight are quickly diminishing. If not already non-existent.

"Another round." Jorge's voice is boisterous as a huge smile spreads across his face. "Considering the table of the only good-looking guys in this place have left, it appears neither of us are going home with anyone but each other tonight. We might as well enjoy free drinks."

"Oh, Jorge," I exaggerate my faux delight as I snuggle against his arm and bat my eyes. "When we role-play later, do you want me to pretend to be Gerard Butler or Jeffrey Dean Morgan?"

"I was thinking more Bradley Cooper," he retorts with a chuckle before placing a kiss on my forehead.

Jorge is my soulmate. My completely platonic soulmate. The fact that we both have the exact same taste in men—and lack of interest in women—firmly prevents our relationship from ever being even remotely romantic in nature. It's for the best. Based on us both being completely incapable of maintaining a romantic relationship, we probably would've parted ways years ago. Likely after a night where at least one of us managed to get the name of the other, thus breaking our rule of unnamed one-night stands.

After several hours of free drinks, we have had way too many whiskeys to be swiping responsibly on dating apps.

"Smaaaaaash!" Jorge grabs the phone from my hand and swipes right before I have a chance to swipe left.

"Gross!" I snatch the phone back. "Did you even make it past his picture?"

He's hot; I can't argue that.

Slicked black hair and piercing blue eyes.

A rugged jawline with that perfect amount of scruff to tickle your inner thigh.

"No, I was just thinking about staring up at his eyes as I?—"

I fling my hand over his mouth before he causes the old man to his left to have a heart attack—for the second time tonight. "He's a taxidermist, Jorge. What even is there to taxidermy in the city? Pigeons? Squirrels?"

"I've got something he could stu?—"

"Jorge!" I slap his arm before laughing. "You are hopeless. And fucking disgusting."

"Pass...pass...pass." I hastily swipe left on the next few photos before pausing. "He's kind of cute."

"No, sweetie. That man is thirst-trapping you with a puppy." Jorge shakes his head. He's right. That ten is much less appealing and more like a six when you crop out that adorable long-eared beagle .

Taking the phone again, he swipes left for me. Horror-struck, I watch as he opens my settings instead of continuing to swipe through profiles. He scrolls to my age limits and adds two decades to it. "Time to expand your options a little."

"I have no interest in fucking a fifty-year-old man." I become acutely aware of how my voice is carrying when I draw the attention of the two older men sitting next to Jorge. I quickly murmur, "No offense."

Too late.

There was definitely offense taken.

If the ground could open up and swallow me now, that'd be great.

Jorge hands me back my phone, and I aimlessly swipe through the pictures. My options are now flooded with men in their late thirties and forties, a demographic I had previously determined to be a tad too old for me. What does a forty-year-old have in common with a recent college grad anyway? Yet, I find myself occasionally swiping right.

"So help me if you don't swipe right on him," Jorge threatens as he all but drools over my phone.

Tristan.

Thirty-Seven.

Deep blue eyes.

An immaculately maintained beard.

Light brown hair with just enough curl to make it adorably disheveled .

"Son of a bitch!" I exclaim when I place his face. "That's the asshole who spilled my drink down the front of me."

My thumb hovers over the screen before swiping his photo.

"And we just swiped right on the asshole because…?" Jorge arches an inquisitive brow.

"To tell him he's a fucking asshole."