Page 3 of The Backup Plan

The bartender sets another glass down—did I ask for that? Is it professional courtesy so that the guy next to me doesn’t keep bugging me?

I smile at the bartender, not wanting to make a scene. Not wanting to be the woman who overreacts. “Thanks.”

The bartender’s focus is already on a large party at the other end of the bar, calling him over. So I finish the sip of my existing glass and push the empty back across the bar, grateful Pink Polo Guy has sat down but isn’t badgering me anymore.

“Excuse me,” a woman to my right says. “Is this your purse?”

I turn to find her picking my purse up off the ground. “Yes. Oh my God. Thank you so much.” I take my purse from her.

“Mine always slips off the stupid chair backs too,” she says with a warm smile.

“Thank you. Again.” I place my purse over my shoulder so that I don’t have to worry about it and turn back to my wine.

“Didn’t mean to come on too strong,” Pink Polo Guy says like we didn’t miss a beat. “I figured having a little company didn’t hurt anyone.”

“I get it. I do. And I appreciate the offer of a drink, but I prefer not to owe anyone anything, if that makes sense.”

His eyebrows narrow and he barks out a startled laugh. “Are you implying that if I paid for your drink like I just did while you were getting your purse that I’d expect something in return?”

Way to stick my foot in my mouth and treat what seems like a nice man like a jerk.

“No. Of course not.” I take a sip of my wine. “And thank you, but I can buy my own drinks.”

“Never thought you couldn’t, but my momma taught me to always treat the lady.”

“Hmm,” I say.

Despite the bartender’s kindness—and the extra attention—this isn’t really my scene. I did what I came here to do, to prove to myself that I can have a drink on my own, and now I can report to Trish on my way out that I did just that.

“Hey, newbie,” the bartender says as he slides another glass in front of me.

“I didn’t—”

“Guy over there is celebrating a new, dream job too. I told him must be the night for it, so he wanted to buy you a drink to celebrate.” He points to a group on the far side of the bar where a man is looking my way and when he lifts his glass up, the people around him cheer.

I do the same with mine and earn an equal cheer. I mouth the words, “Thank you,” to him.

I smile as I take my next sip, feeling proud of myself. I held my own and walked in a bar on my own.

New town. New me. New experiences.

Lucas

Austin hums the way cities do when they’re not trying to impress anyone.

It’s loud without being obnoxious. Alive without begging for attention. A place that doesn’t care who you are or what you’ve done—mostly.

Or maybe it does. In my case, maybe it only knows the version of me it thinks is already dead.

I keep my hat pulled low as I walk with the brim shadowing my eyes. My normally short hair is longer, curling around my ears, and the beard I’m sporting, which helps hide who I am for now, will be gone when I report to camp in the morning. None of this is because I’m hiding though. It’s more that I just don’t feel like answering questions tonight.

The ink on my contract isn’t even dry, no press release has been issued, and there hasn’t been an announcement by my agent or the team. Just a quiet arrival with twenty-four hours to get my bearings before camp officially starts.

A few people glance my way as I stroll down the street. A double take here. A pause there.

A murmured, “You look familiar.”

My nonchalant, “I get that a lot,” in response.