“Ahhh! Yours is so much better than mine. But hey, at least my lady likes this guy from Tallahassee. And you’re bringing along your lovely lady friend. I can’t wait to meet her. I love meeting new people.”

I wince, slowing my pace as I reach Gin Joint, scrubbing a hand across my stubbled jaw. “About that. Turns out I’ll be flying solo next weekend. But it’ll be great.”

I leave it at that. No need to dive into details.

“Oh, no, no.” His voice zooms ten stories high. “Buddy, you can’t come solo. I sold Ashley on you with the understanding that you were half of a couple. That all our men were coupled up.”

“I understand, but at the end of the day, why does it matter?”

“Her youngest sister is one of the bridesmaids, and she’s only eighteen. Amelia’s completely boy-obsessed. Ashley is worried her sister will throw herself at any good-looking guy in her path. And you? Well, look in the mirror. You’re too hot to be single. Not my words—those are Ashley’s. Actually, she said that about all of you when I showed her the pics, so you definitely need a plus-one.”

“Thanks. I think. But wait a second. Do we have enough groomsmen? Don’t you need one for her sister? Or is that playing into the issue?”

“Don’t worry about Amelia. She’ll walk with the maid of honor.”

“Good to know,” I say diplomatically. That’s an odd situation, the bridesmaid needing a chaperone, but maybe it solves the problem of the boy obsession. “And I’ll find a date.”

“I bet you can find one as quickly as I can find the problem in this pipeline project I’ve been studying while we’ve been on the phone. Yup. Found it!”

“You’re speedy.”

“That’s what she said.” He laughs and says good night before I can tell him that’s not really how that saying is supposed to work.

As I find myself at the door of Truly’s bar, I flash back to advice I gave a reader on my blog a few weeks ago. He’d been invited to a work event on the weekend and wanted to know if he should find a date for it on Tinder.

My response?

We modern gentlemen face this “where to find my plus-one” dilemma all the time. But let me share my best advice with you. Are you ready? Come closer. A little closer. DO NOT FIND YOUR DATE ON TINDER.

Tinder isn’t the place for those kinds of hookups—the ones where you need to be a gentleman. Where you want people to remember you, not your date who drank all the free champagne.

No, I told this reader the best solution when we need someone by our side for a special occasion is to ask a friend.

It was sound advice, if I do say so myself. I suppose I should follow it.

7

As a rule of thumb, I don’t dwell on problems or linger over setbacks. I certainly don’t wallow.

I charge forward with focus and tenacity, solving problems for myself and others.

Tonight’s problem I will solve in a bar.

With my jacket slung over my arm, I head into Gin Joint, scanning the swank place for my friends. I spot Harper draped on a purple couch, chatting with her husband, Nick, and when I catch his eye, I signal that I’ll join them shortly. He flips me the bird. I flip him the bird back, and all is well.

I grab a spot at the end of the bar, searching for the woman I came to see. I need to feel her out first. See what kind of mood she’s in.

She’s mixing a martini for a guy with hair slicked back with so much product, it looks like it’s cracking. I’ve written a number of blogs with grooming tips that could help him out. Maybe start with Gel—more is not your friend.

I scan the chalkboard for the signature drinks. Among the gin specials are Game Plan, Last Word, Devil’s Teeth, Hush Money, and That One Time.

A brunette with a Great Gatsby hairstyle—shoulder-length with one of those 1920s headbands—joins Truly behind the bar, taking over the martini.

The woman I came to see marches over to me, plunks down a napkin, then tips her chin toward the Daisy Buchanan look-alike. “Gabriella will get the next few customers, since I suspect you deserve the owner’s attention.”

“I like to think I always do.”

“What can I get for you? Because you look like someone just told you that you can’t have bacon for breakfast.”

I shoot her a have you gone mad look. “Bacon for breakfast? I hope that’s not what you think I eat.”

She parks her hands on the bar. “What do you have for breakfast?”

“Eggs and soldiers.”

Her brow furrows. “What is that?”

I sigh heavily, dropping my forehead to the counter. “Why, oh why, Lord, am I still explaining British references after all these years?”

“I know the basics. Chips, fish, tea, blah, blah, blah.”

I look up, shaking my head sadly. “What am I going to do with you? You need a full and proper education in English food. The soldiers are pieces of toast you dip into the egg, soft-boiled and perched in a snazzy egg cup.”

“Ah. Here we call that, wait for it, toast.”

“Yes, eggs and toast. We’re simply more creative across the pond. But I never have bacon.”

She holds up her hand to high-five. “Welcome to the club of bacon haters.”

“Wait. You have a club?” I high-five back, enjoying the contact more than I thought possible with high fives. But she does have great hands. They did wondrous things to my dick one night.

Stop.

Just stop that right now, dirty brain.

“Of course we have a club. We have meetings and bylaws too.”

“Sign me up, then.”

“We have much work to do, comrade. And work requires a drink. I’m getting the vibe that you’re in the mood for one of my specials—a little gin, a couple cucumbers, and the best part? My homemade red-pepper laced lemonade.” Her gaze sweeps to the chalkboard sign. “Otherwise known as That One Time. Can I interest you?”

“You can very much interest me in That One Time.”

She spins around, grabs a glass, and starts mixing. I settle in on the black metal stool, enjoying the view.

Women like her pouring drinks—it’s one of my favorite sights. Right next to women in bikinis lazing in the sun and women sliding on fishnet stockings and then slipping into heels. Wait, that’s not fair to the image of women in white lace. That makes the list too.

She sets the glass in front of me, and I taste the concoction, savoring the sweet start and the fiery finish. “Beautiful. Now, tell me, why was I in the mood for That One Time?”