Older || 18+

1. Emma

The burn of the dark liquid hits me with each sip. Leaning on the smooth bar, I let the night's stress melt away. Mom kept asking about my lack of a date for her wedding. Her relentless questions, her cornering me in my room - it was too much. My usual responses felt empty: 'Love you, Mom. I don't want to talk about it. Let's wait and see. Yes, more champagne is fine. Are you happy? I need a drink.'

I finish my single malt, its warmth sliding down, burning and yet comforting. It's a welcome distraction, grounding me, blurring the day's memories.

"Another Macallan, please," I tell the bartender. Mom's voice echoes in my head, 'Why not red wine? It's more romantic.' She doesn't get it, the pointlessness of it all. I roll my eyes, pushing down a sigh.

Mom's had it rough these past years. Her heart was shattered by her third divorce in my lifetime. She wallowed in her pain until Archer showed up. I was glad she found someone after so much hurt.

And Archer is.....okay. I mean, he is nice. He doesn't beat my mom like husband number two. Or cheat on her like husband number one, my father. Husband number three did both, and more.

But my mother will never be happy in any of her relationships until she finds someone for me. She is so afraid of me being alone.

With each gulp of the whiskey, tension loosens from my neck and shoulders. But deep down, I can't shake off Mom's words. I'm terrified of both love and of ending up alone. The thought of a loveless marriage, a life devoid of my treasured independence, is unbearable. But so is being in love. Because what happens when the person I love more than life itself, leaves? Or hurts me? Or worse?

I sigh, promising myself just one more drink before retreating to my room. The bar is dimly lit, a soft hum of conversations and clinking glasses around me. It's a hideaway from the wedding chaos, a moment of solitude.

I know being my mother's maid of honor is supposed to be, well, an honor. But it's anything but. Every action I take, every word I speak is scrutinized, judged, and pointed out by Mom. Before today's fittings and rehearsal, Mom looked me up and down and whined, 'Pumpkin, are you trying to lose some weight?' Her nagging continued in the room, berating me for my outfit, which, as she put it, 'did nothing for me.'

The bartender slides the fresh glass of Macallan towards me, its golden hue inviting. I take a small sip, feeling its smoothness. Macallan, like everything, has become one of the few constants, even in a destabilizing world.

Since graduating high school, my personal life has not done much better than Mom's. Even all four years of college hasn't helped. Back in my hometown, no guy really turned my head. And the ones I went out with? They weren't the kind of guys you'd call boyfriend material. As the years ticked by, the idea of a real, lasting love started to feel more and more like a dream. The guys my age just didn't get it; they were all about fun, not forever. And if I'm being honest with myself, sometimes their dads caught my attention more than they did.

"Rough night?" A deep, velvety voice snaps me out of my daze. A man takes the stool next to me, sitting a suitcase at his feet He's a mix of musk and leather, and his hands, adorned with black and gold rings, catch the dim bar light. Maybe the scotch is getting to me, or maybe it's the heat, but he seems almost unreal.

I've never been the shy type, and I know eye candy when I see it. He's got some years on him, that's clear from the silver streaks at his temples and the laugh lines etching his face. But age hasn't dimmed his style - that watch, that jacket, they scream expensive. He's got this air about him, confident, commanding. And there's something familiar about him too. Is it his sharp eyebrows? Or his proud cheekbones and impeccable smooth jawline?

He places his empty glass on the bar, attracting the bartender's attention. His movements are casual and comfortable, like a second skin.

He motions to the bartender for another drink and I can't help my stare. "So, did I hit the nail on the head or is your night perfect?" He jokes, the rich timbre of his voice sending goosebumps all over me.

"Not really," I admit, "it's not bad, just..."

"Just...?" He turns towards me, his rich brown eyes meeting mine. They draw me in, a blend of dark chocolate and warm honey. There's something familiar about him, but I can't quite figure it out.

"Never mind." I dismiss with a wave and a shake of my head, trying to clear my muddled thoughts.

"That bad, huh?" he probes.

"Yeah."

He takes his drink from the bartender, who has already made another one for me. "To bad nights," he toasts, raising his glass. I follow suit, tapping my glass against his. The chime of our glasses is soft, muffled.

"I'm Ares," he offers.

"Emma," I respond.

He swirls the ice around his glass. I can't help but admire him. I'm not a small girl, and he still manages to tower over me. His body is firm, toned, and lean, the fabric of his jacket and pants clinging to his shape. My cheeks warm. How does he make a simple motion, swirling an ice cube in a glass, look so sexy?

I clear my throat, trying to shake the thought. "Do you often drink alone?"

"Im not drinking alone, though. I'm with you, aren't I?"

I smile. "Fair enough. Do you usually hang out with strangers in the hotel bar, though?"

"Only the beautiful ones."

"Smooth. Is that how you pick up women?" I joke, feeling a flutter in my stomach.

He shrugs, the corner of his mouth curling. "You tell me. Does it work?"

I pause. There's no point denying the spark.

"Yes. Yes, it does."

He laughs, the sound filling the space around us. His face lights up, the lines of his cheekbones deepening. There's something boyish in his laugh, an unexpected contrast to his refined persona. I find myself wanting to hear more of it, to make him laugh again.

"I guess you've mastered your approach then," I comment.

"So, Emma, tell me, why are you here, drinking alone?" He turns to face me, his gaze piercing.

I don't want to talk about my mother or her wedding, so I choose some other excuse. "It's been a stressful day. Just trying to relax before going to bed."

"Anything I can do to help?"

I raise an eyebrow. "And what exactly do you have in mind?"

"I'm sure I could think of something. If you'll let me, that is."

I smirk, his flirtatious tone igniting a spark in me. "I'm all ears."

He leans closer. I feel the warmth of his body, his scent, his breath on my ear. I hold my breath, the air thickening between us. He lingers for a second, the tip of his nose grazing my cheek, his lips near my ear.

"Come back to my room with me. Let's get rid of this stress," he whispers.

My heart beats fast. His offer is tempting, and the alcohol buzzing in my veins makes the decision easier. It's just a one-night thing. No strings attached. What's the harm in it?

I turn to face him. He's still close, his breath fanning my cheek, his full lips parted. The space between us is charged with energy, the anticipation making my pulse race.

"Sure. But only if you'll make me come first." I can't believe the words coming out of my mouth. I've never been this bold before.

He pulls back slightly, surprise in his expression. Then he smirks.

"Deal."