Chapter One
Jean perches on a stool, sipping her second martini. She’d held off ordering to begin with – simple date logic. Without a glass in hand, it was much easier to pretend she hadn’t arrived at eight p.m. precisely, that she’d simply breezed into Strata seconds before Scott. But then the minute hand twisted inexorably towards quarter past, and the bartender’s stares had grown pointed. So, she’d ordered a martini, not yet anticipating it would be the only dirty thing about her night.
Jean is not Scott’s first choice. And that’s fine – he wasn’t hers either, with thinning hair and a paunch not quite concealed by the swing of his jacket. But at least he’d worn a suit. Thought:this is the image I’ll project to the world, the best version of myself. And so – bored and with an itch to scratch – she’d swiped right.
Her phone pinged with a match twenty minutes later. Long enough that Scott must have deliberated too. And Jean understands it, eyeing herself in the mirror. Even in the bar’s soft lighting there’s no mistaking her crow’s feet. The slackening of the skin around her neck. Her clothes are impeccable, but this dress is tighter than it was even six months ago. Jean drains the glass, plucking the olive from the cocktail stick and popping it into her mouth. She chews slowly, savouring the salty tang.
What she really wants is a side of mozzarella sticks or a basket of wings. Something heavy enough to quash the butterflies. But that would scupper her chances. Fingers greasy, lipstick smudged – no man wants to hook up with that woman. And even if Scott’s not coming, there are other… possibilities. Jean hasn’t shaved her legs, squeezed into shapewear, and spent billable hours perched on a hard stool to simply call it quits. To go home alone and administer her own battery-powered orgasm.
The door swings open, drawing Jean’s gaze. For an absurd, hopeful moment, she thinks:Scott?From the corner of her eye she searches for greying sandy hair and a lantern jaw. The jeans and blazer that are the smart-casual uniform of white men of a certain age. And there is a blazer. But nothing beneath it that needs concealing.
A young woman strides into the bar, dark curls bouncing round her lapels. She wears cargo pants, a silken top baring just a sliver of sun-kissed midriff, and an unmistakable air of confidence, even though she’s alone.
The young woman draws appreciative glances as she passes. Even the nervous lad clearly out on a date can’t resist looking. And Jean can’t blame him; not really. This girl is curvaceous with a cinched waist, and warm brown just-back-from-holiday skin. And as she leans against the bar, her blazer rides up to display an ass so tight it’s tempting to take a bite. If Jean were a man, she’d want this girl too.
The girl catches her staring. Looks Jean up and down, appraisingly. Then her full lips curve into a grin.
Jean’s lips twitch – close enough to a smile that her staring is mitigated, but chilly enough to ward off conversation. Or so she thinks.
‘A mojito please.’ The young woman nods towards Jean, curls bobbing. ‘And another martini for the lady.’
‘Dirty,’ Jean says, automatically.
The girl turns to look at her full on, eyebrows climbing. ‘What?’
Heat floods Jean’s cheeks. ‘The martini. There was an olive in it, and a dash of juice. That’s called a dirty martini.’
There’s a playful gleam in her eyes, dark and glittering with mirth. The young woman’s gaze never leaves Jean’s as she speaks: ‘And your dirtiest martini please, bartender.’
There are a dozen things she ought to say to put the girl off. Jean would bet her Rolex they’re not in the same tax bracket. But her brain and her tongue can’t seem to cooperate. It’s ridiculous – she hasn’t frozen like this since her first trial, a baby solicitor in borrowed heels, when she’d realised her co-counsel wasn’t coming. William Decker’s idea of a baptism by fire, and Jean’s of a recurring nightmare.
Oblivious to Jean’s discomfort, the young woman taps her card against the machine.
The bartender pours gin, vermouth, and a healthy splash of olive brine into the shaker. Ice rattles against metal as he mixes. And it’s a sound Jean will never tire of hearing. She can’t help but thaw as he pours it into her glass and garnishes it with an olive.
‘Go ahead.’ Her companion nods to the cocktail glass. ‘I’m Ava, by the way.’
Jean lifts the glass to her lips. It’s cool and sharp, with just a hint of salt teasing her tongue. She makes a little noise of contentment. And Ava doesn’t seem to notice when the bartender delivers her own cocktail. Her gaze is still fixed on Jean. It should be disconcerting, being stared at by a stranger, but the warmth of those brown eyes sets her at ease.
But Jean isn’t here to make friends. She shakes her head to break the trance. ‘You should drink that while it’s fresh.’
Ava blinks, confused. Finds the mojito at her elbow. ‘Right.’ She holds her cocktail out. ‘Cheers.’
Jean clinks their glasses together. It would be churlish not to. ‘Cheers. Thank you for the drink, Ava.’
She turns in her seat, facing the bar once more. But Ava doesn’t take the hint. She hops up onto the stool beside Jean’s, sipping at her mojito. ‘You’re welcome.’ A beat. ‘And you are?’
Their eyes meet in the mirror. ‘Jean.’
‘Nice to meet you, Jean.’
‘Likewise.’
They sip in companionable silence, which Jean very deliberately does not break. Sooner or later Ava will get bored – and the sooner she does, the faster she’ll saunter off to somebody else. If Ava wants a drinking companion, she won’t be short on takers.
‘So.’ Ava stirs the mint with her cocktail pick. ‘What brings you here?’
Jean grasps the stem of the glass, rolling it between her fingers so the martini swirls. She will not share confidences with her dewy-skinned competition. ‘Drink.’
