I sighed in pleasure as I walked into the cool, quiet, elegant lounge area. It wasn’t very crowded for a late Friday afternoon. But people were probably still out by the pool or getting ready for dinner.

I took a seat at the bar and when the bartender came over and put a napkin down in front of me, I ordered a margarita on the rocks, no salt. I took a deep breath and joined my hands in front of me at the bar, smiling a contented smile.

“No salt?” a voice a couple stools down said. “Who orders a margarita with no salt?”

The smile left my face and I swiveled my head and stared at the man sitting to my left. Seriously? “Why, if it isn’t Carson Stinger, Straight Male Performer,” I said. I groaned inwardly. No, no, this is good, Grace. You've been given another chance to heal your wounded pride. Come out of this exchange on top–so to speak. Gah.

He was looking at me strangely, waiting for me to say something, a look on his face that was amused, yet watchful.

I raised an eyebrow before saying, “If you’re considering telling me you’ve got something for me that’s nice and salty, please hold yourself back.” I turned as the bartender placed my drink in front of me. I took a long sip.

Carson chuckled and before I knew it, he was moving down the bar with his beer in hand to sit right next to me. I turned to glare at him as he said, “What I was going to say, Buttercup, was that you’re really missing out ordering a margarita without the salt. It’s all about licking the salt off the rim and then sucking the sweet liquid through the straw. The contrast of sweet and salty on your tongue is so, so good.” He leaned closer to me as he lowered his voice. “Try it once, just once.”

Okay, now he was just trying to get a rise out of me. And why? What exactly had I done to this man? I narrowed my eyes further, even angrier at the fact that his words were turning me on–again. My traitorous body liked his damn, deep sugary voice and purposefully titillating words. Stupid body! I might never have sex again, just to punish her and her non-sensical, whorish reactions.

“Let me buy you one,” he said, the corners of his lips rising. "Seriously. Just one drink my way. You can do a taste test and see who's right. We can get to know each other a little better." He winked.

I turned my body, facing him fully now and taking a deep breath. Before I started, I smiled sweetly. "I'm going to lay it out straight for you here, Carson. And the reason that I'm going to do that is because I have every confidence that it will scare you off badly enough that I can then finish my drink in peace, and we can part as acquaintances who simply have nothing in common."

He raised one eyebrow and I joined my hands in my lap, tilting my head as I continued.

"I'm the kind of girl who wants to get married in a big, white dress, wearing my grandma's pearls. I want a husband who loves me and is faithful to me. I want him to come home to me every night, and I don't want to have to worry if he's doing his secretary, because he's the kind of man who has too much honor to do that. I want to wait a year and then I want to start trying for the two kids that we'll eventually have, a girl and a boy. And when we have those kids, I do not want, one day, to have to look in their little faces and explain why their daddy is on the internet having relations with everyone from College Honeys to Cougars Gone Wild for money. I want to throw a cartoon themed birthday party at a jump house for my six year old, not mark the occasion by explaining what a "money shot" is. I have a feeling your life goals are somewhat different than mine. And by 'somewhat,' I mean, utterly and completely. Does that explain why it would be a waste of time for both of us to continue being in each other's presence?"

He was thoughtful for a minute, turning back to the bar and taking a drink of his beer. Finally, he turned to me. "How did we make those two kids?"

My brow furrowed. "Uh, you might want to re-think your career choice if you don't know–"

"What I mean is, what position did we make our two kids in? Doggy Style? Backwards Cowgirl? The Garfield? Flying Circus? Butterfly? Table Lotus? Bended Knee?"

My mouth fell open. I put my hand up and said, "Stop! Okay, first of all, I have no idea what some of those are, nor do I want to know. But secondly, what does that have to do with anything?"

"Oh, believe me, you want to know. Why it matters is because someday when Princess is screaming at three in the morning with a loaded diaper, or Junior gets expelled from preschool for punching his classmate, I want to be able to think back to the moment that we created them, and I want to smile and remember why it was the best fuck of my life, and why whatever shit–literal and figurative–I have to deal with later on, is worth it."

My mouth dropped open against my will. "You're disgusting."

"You're the one who had my baby. Twice."

"I did not, nor will I ever have your baby. That was my point."

"So you're just going to abandon Princess and Junior? Nice mom."

I stood up, throwing a ten-dollar bill on the bar. "Done. You enjoy your drink, Carson Stinger. I look forward to seeing you again, um, never." And with that, I grabbed my purse, turned tail and started walking away as Carson called out, "Also, babe, you play hot secretary for me when I get home at the end of the day, and I'll have no need to do my real one."

I raised my arm and flipped him off. I heard his throaty chuckle from behind, but I kept walking.

Carson

I heard the slap of her flip-flops fade away and took another swig of my beer. Uptight, little brat. Hot, uptight, little brat, but a brat nonetheless. I knew her type. She could get all indignant, stick that haughty little chin in the air, tell me why she was better than me, and walk away, but I saw the way her body reacted. She wanted me. Most women did, if I was going to be honest. Everyone was given one gift or another–mine was a smile women creamed their panties over and a body to match. Why be humble about it? It's not like I could take any credit–I just knew how to use my God-given assets. The girl though, Grace Hamilton–I'd seen it on her luggage tag–she'd never let herself indulge, not knowing what I did for a living anyway. But just the fact that her body responded should have been enough for me. So why didn't that thought make me happy? It usually did. So what was different here? I downed the last of my beer and frowned at the display of bottles behind the bar, trying to solve the riddle.

It had been the strangest thing. I was walking to the front desk to leave a message for my agent who was flying in from L.A. the next morning, and I had crashed into someone, her blonde head colliding into my chest, just under my chin, and I was able to smell her clean, flowery-scented hair, gathered up in one of those twists.

As she had looked up at me, flustered and breathless, my own breath almost hitched in my chest at the beauty of the heart-shaped face gazing back. She had the biggest, blue eyes I had ever seen, a cute little nose, and the prettiest damn mouth–full, light pink lips with a pretty bow shape on top. Sure, she was pretty, beautiful even. But I saw pretty girls all day long. Why did one glance at this one have me staring, trying to memorize her face like a lovesick schoolboy? I had no damn clue. We had both paused before moving back from each other, and I took in her slim body in a fitted, black skirt and a silky, white blouse. I loved that look. Hot schoolteacher. I had looked into her face and I could see a slightly confused warmth shining from her crystal clear eyes. In that gaze, I had almost forgotten who I was. Almost. And that never happened.