The hotel bar is exactly what I need after the day from hell.
Twelve hours of meetings. A presentation that went sideways. A client who couldn’t make a decision if his life depended on it.
I kicked off my heels the moment I got back to my room, stripped out of my pencil skirt, and stood under the shower until the water ran cold.
Now I’m in my favourite black dress – the one that hugs everything, ends mid-thigh, makes me feel like someone worth looking at – and I’m perched on a barstool in a city where no one knows my name.
One drink, I tell myself. Just one, then bed.
The bartender slides a wine list across the mahogany, but I wave it away.
“Whiskey. Neat.”
He raises an eyebrow – impressed or judging, I can’t tell – and reaches for the good stuff without being asked. I like him alre
