Gin
It was supposed to be one drink. With Dane. I asked him out on a date. It was nothing grand. Just a phone call and, "Wanna hang?"
Dane had declined, respectfully.
But I'd gone anyway, all dressed up. Did I have anything in mind? No. I'd been holed up in my room for days, bawling and eating ice-cream.
I wanted to feel good again. Wanted. Needed. I wanted one drink and perhaps, to flirt with a guy who didn't have a pregnant fiancée. The last couple of days of my life have been nasty and filled with tears and pain.
I thought I'd try to make it different.
"I just want to talk," I had told Dane when he'd sighted me and started to retreat into the private booth.
But all I could talk about was Sinclair. At some point, I'd started sobbing, and Dane had been very sweet. I really shouldn'
