I look at my wardrobe, look at the elegant pieces—mostly black, white, and khaki—hanging in my closet, and I don’t even know where to start finding low-key and nonthreatening. Not that he’d need nonthreatening with me. He’s probably met so many women, tons and tons of women, that a woman like me—end of her thirties and divorced—doesn’t scare him. He, after all, is probably assuming he’ll bed me.

I guess I’m assuming he will, too. Otherwise why would I do this? Why would I be here, putting myself through this?

I pull a black linen skirt and black cropped top from the closet and hold it up before me, try to see me the way he’d see me, and I can’t. I can’t.

I just see a redhead who needs to get her color retouched, and he probably sees, what… vixen? Ha!

I toss the skirt and top onto the bed, strip off my terry-cloth hotel robe, and step into the shower.

Time to shave and shine.

Chapter Seven

Seven

I’m at the bar where we agreed to meet. And it’s not the kind of bar I’ve been to, well, in years. If ever. It’s almost what I’d call a biker bar. Dark, small, reeking of beer, with a handful of men in need of a shave leaning heavily on the counter.

And the men, I imagine, probably reek, too, but that’s not kind and I’m just being nervous.

Nervous of what?

Nervous of whom?

Nervous of me.

I walk inside, up another couple of steps, hesitate as every head at the counter turns, stares at me, and I stand there awkwardly. I’m overdressed for the bar. I’m overdressed for everything in life, heavy on wardrobe and style, yet where am I supposed to go?

What am I supposed to do—even if on the outside I look polished, look good?

I turn around to walk out, and as I start for the door, he’s standing in it.

Kai.

Dressed.

Dressed remarkably well for a poor surfer. Cool shirt, long shorts, flip-flops, but his dark, sun-streaked hair is combed and he’s shaven and he looks… amazing.

And then he smiles, white teeth, blue eyes, and the smile burrows inside me, makes me feel. And the more I feel, the more I think I have to feel, the more I need to feel.

“Hey,” he says.

I smile, smooth my linen skirt, glad I at least put on a skirt. Makes me feel, if not grown up, then civil. As if all respectable things happen to women in dresses and skirts.

“I…” I smile, shake my head, and I’m blushing. This is like a movie, a terrible made-for-TV movie. Older woman falls for younger guy, has a night of incredible sex, and returns home refreshed. Reenergized.