CHAPTERONE
OLIVIA
This is a bad idea.
Heart thudding, I peered through the door adorned with rainbow flags. A group of people sat by a table near the window, looking like they’d stepped out of a queer clothing ad: flannel shirts, button-ups, piercings, tats, and stylish hairstyles.
I looked down at my tan coat, floral jumpsuit, and brown boots.Oh dear.I should come back later, once I’d had a chance to buy a whole new wardrobe and visit a hairdresser. Or not at all. The whole thing was stupid.
Someone cleared their throat behind me. “Are you going in?”
My stomach somersaulted. I sucked in a deep breath to steady myself.Olivia, you’ve been planning this for weeks. Just do it. The clock is ticking. You’ll regret it if you don’t.
“Do you need help opening the door?” The woman’s voice, smooth and calm, gave nothing away. She was either genuinely concerned about my door-opening abilities, or she was just getting impatient.
“No. Sorry.” I pushed the door open, keeping my head facing forward in case the sight of her weakened my resolve to go through with my plan.
Inside, the smell of stale alcohol and the low hum of chatter hit me. Now that I was actually doing this, a buzz of excitement mixed with my nerves, sending my stomach swirling. Trying to exude confidence, I walked with purpose to the bar. I passed the five stylish patrons at the window. To my disappointment, they didn’t look up. Another group of people were gathered around the pool table, laughing. A few couples were seated at the bar. I didn’t recognize anyone.Thank God.Sure, my hometown, Sapphire Springs, might be over thirty minutes away, but Pryde was the only queer bar in the Hudson Valley south of Poughkeepsie—at least the only one I knew that did “Sapphic Saturdays.”
I chose a bar stool away from the couples and clambered onto the high leather seat. Losing my balance, my butt slipped on the smooth surface. I grabbed the dark wooden counter to steady myself just in time and exhaled. Falling on my ass wasnotpart of my plan.
Okay. What now?In my fantasies, a hot queer woman would approach me and strike up a conversation, but now I was here, that prospect seemed less likely. Everyone in the bar was engrossed with their lovers or friends.
Someone slid onto the bar stool two seats down from me. My heartbeat quickened. They were alone. Perhaps waiting for someone? I swallowed, unable to make eye contact. I needed a few minutes to regain my composure before attempting to start up a conversation with a stranger.
I picked up a drinks menu from the counter and stared at it intently, taking nothing in. Sweat pricked under my arms. Fumbling, I unbuttoned my coat and pulled it off.Now, what to do with it?I ran my hand under the bar, smiling when it hit a hook. I bent down and draped my coat over it. The coat fell onto the ground. Sighing, I clambered off the stool, bending down to place it more carefully over the hook. At least since no one was paying me any attention, there was no one to witness my butt sticking in the air.
As I went to stand, my head smashed against the counter. Pain tore through my skull. I took a deep breath, readying myself to climb back onto the stool. I stopped still as my gaze fell on the woman who’d taken a seat near me.
I noticed her clothes first. She’d also missed the dress code. A tailored, navy-blue suit flattered her slim, tall frame. Her jacket was open, and underneath was a white business shirt, unbuttoned part-way down her chest. A hint of cleavage was just visible.
My gaze wandered up, taking in her full lips, high cheekbones, and short blond hair, which was parted on her left side and flopped across her forehead above her piercing blue eyes—piercing blue eyes that were staring directly at me.
Shit. Stop gawking Liv.
She was exactly the sort of woman who’d always turned my head. Androgynous. Older than me. Self-assured. But was it sexual attraction I felt, or just a platonic appreciation for a beautiful woman? I usually hated suits—almost all of my encounters with them had been extremely negative—but somehow I didn’t mind this one. In fact, I might have even liked the suit. On her.
Her intense eyes narrowed.
Heat flushed my cheeks. Fuck. She’d clearly caught me ogling at her and wasn’t pleased.
“Are you okay?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.
Oh god. I recognized that voice. This striking woman was the person who’d witnessed me hesitating outside the bar only minutes earlier.
“Um, yes, sorry,” I mumbled. I couldn’t exactly tell her I’d been mesmerized by her androgynous beauty.
“Why are you apologizing? You hit your head, not mine. Or are you concussed?” she asked.
Thank god. She’d been asking if my head was okay, not calling me out for staring at her. Except—my cheeks flamed even hotter—she must have witnessed me fumbling around under the counter with my butt in the air.
“Oh, no. I’m fine, thanks.” I ran my fingers through my hair and then focused my efforts on getting back on the stool without slipping off again.
“I’m not usually this clumsy. It must just be nerves,” I babbled, wincing as the words left my mouth.Very smooth, Olivia.
“Nerves? Are you waiting for a date?” She raised an eyebrow again, her voice silky.
“No…” I said, my mouth dry. I’d bet my best peonies that it hadn’t taken watching Michelle Pfeiffer slinking around on the screen as Catwoman as a wide-eyed fourteen-year-old for her to start questioning her sexuality—and another seventeen years to get around to actually exploring it. She’d probably been born knowing her sexual orientation.
