The women who fell for him were always the wrong ones. Plenty of the young mothers who brought him their children fixed big, vulnerable, doe eyes on him; young, pretty, married women. He was in the market for a wife, not an angry husband coming after him.
He’d had a couple of serious relationships that hadn’t lasted long. There had been a lot of women to fill the time—brief, superficial affairs. Frankly, he could have a woman whenever he wanted one, but he was so tired of that long string of meaningless relationships, weary of the nurses’ jokes about the playboy pediatrician and exhausted from looking.
So he remained the solitary seventh wheel, lately refusing his friends’ offers of blind dates and introductions. He had grown bored with it all and realized his failure to hook up had put him in a real mood. And sex without any feelings of involvement left him empty inside. He was better off alone.
When dinner with his partners was over, he watched them go off together, home to their marriage beds and children while he would go to his too-large, too-quiet house.
The prospect had him feeling gloomy enough to go to the hotel bar for a nightcap. It was late and the bar was nearly deserted; it seemed most of the hotel guests were caught up in a loud and annoyingly happy wedding reception in the ballroom. At the bar, he asked for a Chevis, neat. He didn’t feel like a drink so much as he didn’t want to go home yet, so he spent more time staring into it than sipping. Thirty minutes passed and he still had most of the drink in his glass when he started thinking about facing the loneliness of his house. He stood and pulled out his wallet to put a bill on the bar when he noticed her. A woman sitting at a small table in a dark corner. Also staring into a drink, also alone.
Cam thought about talking to her, but reminded himself how these encounters usually played out. He didn’t feel like another empty connection or worse, finding someone he liked and being let down. But she was pretty and looked a little sad…
The bartender wandered over. “Anything else, Doc?” he asked Cam.
“No, thanks. She been here long?” he asked, tipping his head toward the table in the corner.
“Longer than you.”
“Alone?”
The bartender shrugged. “Couldn’t tell you. I guess.”
Oh, what the hell… Cameron put down the bill and picked up his drink. He wandered over to her table. As he looked down at her, she lifted soft brown eyes to him. She had that classic, sophisticated look, her shiny ash-blond hair curled under on her shoulders. High cheekbones, oval face, arched brows the identical shade as her hair, and a sweet pink mouth. But she didn’t smile. “Can I buy you a drink?” he asked her.
“I’m just having seltzer,” she said. “I don’t think I’d be very good company.”
“I’m no prize tonight either, which is why I was killing time in the bar. I bet we’ll be able to tell in five minutes if we’re just two miserable people.”
Her shoulders gave a little lift with a silent huff of laughter.
“May I sit down?” he asked.
“Really, I think I’d rather be alone…” she said.
He sat down across from her anyway and said, “You sure I can’t get you something a little stronger? Something tells me you could use it.”
“No. You should really go.”
He chuckled lightly. “Man, I thought I was in a bad mood,” he said. “You’re working up a good funk. What’s wrong, kiddo? What happened?”
She sighed. “Could we please not do this? I’m not in the mood to be picked up or talk about my troubles, all right?”
“Okay,” he said. “I won’t pick you up or ask you about your troubles.” He finished the last swallow of his drink and got up. Cameron went to the bar and ordered another Chevis and a champagne cocktail, returning to her table. He put the cocktail in front of her and took his seat again.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“Champagne cocktail. I figured you for something sweet and sexy.”
Her smile was mocking. “Great line,” she said facetiously.
“Thank you.” He smiled. “You obviously need a few lessons in how to feel sorry for yourself. You don’t do it with seltzer, for one thing.”
She lifted the glass and took a sip.
“There you go,” he said, smiling again. He reached across the small table and placed his hand over hers. “Sure you don’t want to talk about it?”
“I’m sure,” she said, removing her hand. “You want to talk? Let’s talk about you. You said you’re in a bad mood.”