Mom dismissively waves her hand. “Oh, that’s nothing you need to worry about. You’re all adults, not petty teenagers. Go on. Go have some fun.”
“Yes, go have fun,” Dad encourages. “You only live once, son.”
With that, they turn their backs on me, huddling together and cutting me out completely.
I glance over my shoulder to where Nora is sitting patiently, watching everything unfold.
As I see it, I have two options. I can bolt out of here and sprint all the way to my apartment, where I’ll lock myself away from the world forever, or I can go sit at the bar near Nora and drown myself in some whiskey.
Option one is humiliating.
Option two . . . also humiliating, but will hopefully offer the possible chance to forget everything in the morning.
Hmm . . . guess there’s a clear-cut choice.
Bottoms up.
Chapter Four
NORA
Never in a million years would I have ever thought I’d run into Cooper Chance at the Dirty Beaver, let alone run into his parents acting as his wingmen.
And I thought this night was going to be a complete bust.
Looks like things just got interesting.
But what’s even more interesting? Cooper is not the man I remember from a year ago. He’s stacked on some muscles he never had before. He changed out his glasses from a round silver frame to a more stylish square black frame. And instead of the clean-shaven man I’ve seen in many pictures, he’s now sporting a solid scruff, which toes the line of full beard.
Someone had a bit of a glow up after their divorce, and it’s doing him good.
Really good.
And you probably shouldn’t be looking at him in that way . . . Nora.
Sighing heavily, he flops onto a stool and drapes his large arms on the bar top. “Whiskey, please,” he says to Earl, head turned down.
When he took a seat, he left a stool between us, which is telling me two things—he’s willing to have a conversation, but he also doesn’t want to be completely open to talking.
But this is too much fun for me not to have a conversation with the man.
“So . . . your parents as wingmen. That’s a first,” I say.
Slowly, he tilts his head to the side until our eyes meet. “Not by my choice.”
“I gathered that by your ever-present sulking. You know, some might feel quite lucky that their parents care so much about their love lives.”
“Mine are too involved.”
I shrug. “I think it’s cute. Trolling the streets for nice girls—feels like a YouTube series. I can see the opening credits. You three, linked arm in arm, skipping down the sidewalk together.”
Cooper scrubs his hand over his face. “I should have gone with option number one.”
“Huh?” I ask.
Earl places a glass of whiskey in front of Cooper, and with one swift motion, he tilts his head back and downs the entire glass. When he sets it back on the bar top, he clears his throat. “Could I have another? Thanks.”
“Oh, that kind of night, huh?”
“What do you think?”
“I think you’re looking at this all wrong.”
He turns on his stool to face me, his expression suddenly intent. “Oh yeah, please tell me how exactly I’m looking at this all wrong.”
“Don’t mind if I do.” I lift my beer and finish it off before holding up the empty bottle to Earl. “Could I get another?” He nods with a wink and quickly delivers. Such a good man. I twist the cap off the bottle. “Your parents are taking the hard work out of your hands. Not sure how far you are into the dating scene, but it’s rather unpleasant, trying to meet people. You spend all this time talking to them, trying to gauge if they’re a decent enough person, only to find out that they collect toenail clippings in their spare time.” He cringes at that. “But your parents are taking that work away from you,” I continue. “They’re doing the dirty work, and you’re reaping the benefits. I think that’s a pretty decent deal if you ask me.”
“But they’re my parents.”
“Yes, there seems to be a certain stigma to that, but any intelligent woman would be able to look past such a thing.” I fluff my hair with a smirk.
“Are you saying you’re intelligent?” he asks, lifting his glass to his lips.
“Are you saying I’m not?” I quirk a brow at him.
“I don’t know enough about you to make an honest assessment.”
“And whose fault is that?” I ask. “You know, you were married to my best friend, but we’ve also known each other for years, since our parents are good friends and all. You’ve had plenty of time to assess my intelligence.”