As far as I’m concerned, I have a hall-pass today.

Never mind the fact that I’m twenty-two.

A grown woman.

A full-blown adult, even if I’m still living under my parents’ roof like a baby bird who never learned how to fly away from the nest. It was never that I couldn’t fly, just that I was never allowed.

Until now.

I spend the better part of ten minutes convincing myself it’s perfectly okay to enjoy an adult beverage at eleven on a Tuesday all by myself, and the second the proprietor flips the window sign to “open,” I show myself in and take the first bar stool on the left.

The inside of the place is dark, and it almost feels like night. I suspect there’s a glaze on the windows, tinting them to give off just enough of a dusky ambiance to make people want to stay a while. I’m beginning to forget what all transpired just a little while ago, but I’m quite certain I’ll forget even more once I’m face to face with a stiff drink.

Rows upon rows of glass liquor bottles in every shade from clear to brown to cobalt are backlit on shelves that span from the ceiling to the back of the bar. I glance around for a drink menu and find none. Maybe they’re not out yet?

I suppose most drinkers don’t need menus. They know what they like. They know what’s good.

“What can I get you, ma’am?” A gray-bearded bartender tucks a white rag into the back of his apron and rests his hands on his hips, studying me. “Are we having a drink today? Lunch? Both?”

“I’d like a drink.” My words are slow and unnatural. I cringe on the inside. Hard. I sound like a foreigner in a strange new land, uttering an unfamiliar phrase, trying to blend in, yet making herself stand out even more. “What would you recommend?”

His round head cocks sideways, and he chews on his lower lip before smacking the top of the bar with an open palm. “I know. A Manhattan.”

“What’s in that?” Now I sound like a child afraid to try a new food their mother has laid out before them.

“Whiskey, sweet vermouth, and bitters.”

“I look like a Manhattan girl to you?”

His head cocks and his lips curl into a slow grin. “Not at all. You look like a girl who’s never had a drink in her life.”

I resent that, as true as it may be. “You’re wrong.”

My father always said once a person starts lying, they never stop, and in the last week, I’ve proven him to be correct. I can’t get over how easy it feels to be in the company of this stranger, this Salt Lake City bartender, look him in the eye, and make him believe anything I want him to believe about me.

I’ve been given a blank slate.

No one knows me here.

I can be anyone I want to be, even if it’s just for an hour or so.

It’s a lot of power to place in the hands of a twenty-two-year-old girl who, her whole life, has never been allowed to spread her wings. Not once.

“I’ll take champagne,” I declare, straightening my posture and crossing my legs.

“Ah. A celebratory beverage.” He’s either making a statement or subtly hinting that he still doesn’t believe me.

“Was just offered a new job.” I force a smile on my face, the one that would’ve been placed by an actual job offer.

“We don’t sell by the glass,” he says. “But since you’re a champagne drinker, you should know that.”

“Well aware,” I lie. That makes number three for the day and probably number sixteen for the week.

My father was right.

The bartender releases his grip on the ledge and his gaze from mine in one fluid whoosh and disappears in the back, emerging with a dark green bottle dripping with condensation. I squint from my perch at the end of the bar, failing to read the elaborate script font on the cream label.

Jingle bells on the door slice through the quiet bar. My fingers rap against the marble counter as I stare ahead at a mounted T.V. screen.

Today, I’m celebrating.

A silent toast to my impending freedom.

Even if I have to fight for that freedom.

Even if I’ll do anything to obtain it.

My mother’s words echo in my head as the bartender pops the cork. We were standing around the kitchen last week peeling carrots for a stew and discussing how it was Dad and Kath’s seventh anniversary when she turned to me and said, “You’re going to make a great first wife, Bellamy. Heaven help us if you’re ever a second or third wife like poor Kath.”

She thought she was being cute, and she meant it in jest, but all it did was ignite a fire so deep in my soul all the water in the world won’t put it out.

The new patron takes the stool two spots down from me. We’re separated by one seat. I resist the urge to huff or give them a single look. Eight other spots and this person has to sit close to me.

“Here we are.” I glance at the bartender’s nametag, which reads Matt.

I take the champagne glass by the stem like I’ve seen classy women do in movies and lift it in his direction. Today I’m fancy. Today I’m free.

“Thank you, Matt.” The glass rim presses against my bottom lip.

“Manhattan.” The customer two spots down has a voice smooth as velvet and laced with palpable virility. It commands my attention, dissolving my previous disinterest in two seconds flat.

My God.

My breath catches in my throat. I tilt the flute and take a small mouthful, letting the tiny bubbles dance on my tongue before quickly swallowing them. The last thing I want to do is choke them down like some amateur.

The champagne is sweet, but not too sweet. The crispness is refreshing in a way I’m sure I’d appreciate much more if I weren’t so distracted by the suit sitting mere feet away from me. He’s sucked all the air from the room, I’m sure of it, because now I can’t seem to catch my breath.

“If you’re going to stare, at least introduce yourself.” He speaks to me though he looks straight ahead.

My jaw slacks, my brain racking itself to come up with the appropriate comeback that doesn’t make me sound like a love-struck teenager noticing boys for the first time. I noticed boys a long time ago; I’d just never noticed anyone like him before.

His elbows rest lightly against the bar, his hands gripping the shiny glass Matt just placed in front of him. Not a single spec of fuzz or stray hair clings to the impeccable fabric of his navy suit. Lush, dark hair covers his head, and his jaw hollows just below his cheekbone.

They certainly don’t make them like him back in Whispering Hills.

“She doesn’t speak English?” he asks Matt.

“Bellamy Miller.” I don’t extend my hand; instead it rests firmly at the base of my champagne glass. I hold my head up high. If he’s going to sit there like some arrogant businessman, two can play that game. “And you would be…?”

The curiously handsome and intensely haughty stranger turns my way, clearing his throat and tensing his jaw as his unyielding stare sharpens in my direction. The hollows of his cheekbones release and flex not once but twice. “Dane Townsend.”

I expect him to smile or nod, and I wait in vain for his expression to soften.

Instead, he huffs like I’m some nobody who’s suddenly invaded his personal space.

Well, excuse me.

I uncross and re-cross my legs the opposite way, turning back toward the T.V. Some soccer game is playing, and I pretend it’s the most engrossing thing I’ve ever seen. Anything is better than having a staring contest with the world’s most arrogant stranger.

“I wasn’t done speaking to you.” His words slice through the tight space between us. His need to control and dominate this conversation is insulting.

“Pardon me?”

“I introduced myself, and then you said nothing and turned away.” He lifts his drink to his full mouth, his eyes burning into mine as he pulls in a sip. “It’s rude.”

My jaw falls, and I jerk my attention away. Any quick fantasies I may have had about this man a few minutes ago have dissipated.