Truly

A year later

Soft French music filters through the bar. Antique curios and a collection of old clocks line the shelves. The plush sofas in the lounge that hearken back to Belle Époque era are my favorite kind—full.

As in full of patrons, sipping drinks with names like Mais Oui and C’est La Vie.

Bisou is ours, mine and Charlotte’s, and I’m so damn glad the deal with Darren fell through. We did this. We built this, and it’s thriving thanks to a couple of savvy businesswomen.

Tonight, though, this savvy businesswoman needs to talk to a friend.

Because when Presley walks in, slumps on a stool, and heaves a sigh, all my friend antennae twitch an alert.

“Let me guess. Guy trouble?”

“How could you tell?” She pretends to sniff her shirt. “Is it a new scent I'm giving off?”

“No, but that would be a fun name for a drink. Note to self: craft a new cocktail named Guy Trouble.”

“Yeah, and serve it to me,” she says as she drags a hand through her chestnut hair.

I grab a bottle of tequila. “Any drink named Guy Trouble should start with tequila.”

“Because tequila burns?”

“It sure does.”

“Just like exes.”

I arch a curious brow. “Ex as in the most recent ex, or someone else?”

She takes a beat, her jaw tight. “Ex as in way back. All the way back. Remember Hunter?”

I nearly drop the bottle. “Hunter? Hunter as in the Hunter?”

She scoff-laughs. “Yep. The Hunter.”

“That was more than ten years ago. How is he giving you trouble now? You haven’t heard a word from him. I thought he was in Nepal or New Zealand or wherever his show takes him.”

“He’s always somewhere, except now, he’s going to be here.” She stabs the counter with her finger. “My boss just contracted with him to work on a huge new project. Guess who else is heading up that huge new project?”

“Um, gee. Could it be you?”

She lets her face fall to the bar. “I need a double.”

“Double trouble.”

“Yes, that’s exactly what he is.” She lifts her face. “Have I mentioned he’s still gorgeous?”

“You don’t have to. I see him on billboards.”

“You’re not helpful.”

I waggle the bottle. “Oh, yes, I am. Because I have the tequila. Let’s mix up your Guy Trouble and come up with a plan.”

After all, I’m on the other side of guy trouble. And if I can help a friend figure out her boy problems, I’m more than happy to do that. Especially since my biggest boy problem these days is how I’m going to fit through the doorway. One baby boy is nearly done baking in my belly, and I can’t wait to meet my son someday soon, hopefully before I can no longer reach past my belly to pour drinks.

Jason was all too happy to pay up on that bet with his coworker. After all, a gentleman always makes good on his wagers.

AND ONE MORE EPILOGUE

Truly

The number of things a woman will do to impress a man can be quite extensive.

They border on the ridiculous (waking up twenty minutes early to put on a full face of makeup lest he see you less than perfect) to the insane (claiming you like preseason basketball).

No one enjoys preseason basketball.

Also . . . dog-earing the pages of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance so it looks like you read it? Or declaring you dig Bret Easton Ellis?

Ladies, we can do better.

That means you shouldn’t ever feel pressured to say, “Sure, I’ll be happy to watch Blade Runner with you.”

You never have to pretend you like that film.

Fortunately, I don’t have to fake it on any of these, and I’m grateful. When I talk to women at one of my two bars (Bisou and Gin Joint are rocking hard. Yay, woman power!), I tell them the same.

When they ask for advice, because that’s just something they all want from the master mixologist pouring their drinks, the main thing I tell women is this: be yourself.

After all, don’t you want a guy or gal to love you for you?

That’s what I have with my man. Jason loves all my quirks, all my insanity, and everything that makes me . . . me.

That’s the coolest thing. Because when you find the person who’s your perfect match, you also find you’re not so inclined to spend all hours curled up with a computer or a spreadsheet.

But my husband?

Oh yes. I like spending my nights with him, and my mornings too. Especially when we’re making pancakes.

I might be referring to the song.

It might also be a euphemism for something else we do a lot of.

After all, we’re still madly in love, and this kind of love is the ultimate instant gratification.

THE END