“Ready, Tan?” Pauly’s glass taps against mine, pulling me from my thoughts.

“Bottoms up, baby.” God, it feels good to be back in the swing of things. Listening to the guys’ war stories, getting up to speed on the shit that’s happened on the grassroots level that no one back at home has any clue about.

The whisky goes down a little smoother the second and third times while our crowd gets a little bigger as people are coming in after fulfilling their assignments. And each wave of people joining us ushers in another round of shots.

Maybe it’s the alcohol, or maybe it’s the familiar atmosphere, but soon I feel like I can breathe easier than I have in months. I think of Stella intermittently through the night, how much she’d have loved this show of unity between all these people competing for the next big story, and for the first time in forever I can smile at her memory.

“So, how long are you here for this time?” Pauly asks.

“I don’t know.” I blow out a long breath and lean back in my chair, my finger tracing the lines of condensation down the still-full glass of water in front of me. Whisky tastes so much better tonight. “This might be my last time—I don’t know.” My own words surprise me. A confession from the combination of the nostalgia and my own mortality examined through an alcohol-tinted microscope.

“Quit talking like that. This shit is in your blood. You can’t live without it.”

“True.” I glance across the room fleetingly while I nod my head slowly in agreement. “But, dude, a dog only has so many lives.”

“I guess that’s why I prefer pussies. They’ve got nine of ’em.”

“Christ, Pauly.” I choke on the words. “I prefer to eat it rather than live it.”

His arm goes around my shoulder as his laugh fills my ears. “I missed the fuck out of you, Thomas. Speaking of …” His hand grips me tighter before he lifts his chin to direct my line of sight. “The hottie at two o’clock has been eyeing you all night.”

I shrug the comment away, even though a small part of me—one that I’m not too happy with right now—hopes that he’s referring to the woman I’d glimpsed earlier. I’d told myself that she’d left. But secretly I’m hoping I was wrong. “I’m sure as hell hoping when you say ‘hot one,’ you’re referring to a woman and not an IED.”

“Cheers to that truth. Scary shit,” he says, again tapping his glass against mine, “and no, I’m referring to dark hair, great rack, killer body—”

“No, thanks,” I cut him off but my eyes dart to where I saw her sitting earlier and immediately chastise myself.

“You still seeing what’s-her-name?” he asks with the same indifference as I felt toward her.

“Nah …” I let my voice drift off, my thoughts veering to our last fight, when she accused me of cheating on her with Stella. “She took an assignment monitoring North Korea.”

“She thought you and Stella were messing around?”

The thought brings a bittersweet smile to my face. Memories of Stella and me, young and in love, flash through my mind. It feels like forever ago. Probably because it was. Two young twentysomethings on our first assignment with no one else to help occupy our time. Lust turned to sweet love, and then the slow realization that we weren’t any good as a couple. Then came an awkward phase in which we had to get over the bitterness associated with lust gone wrong, but through it all we really were a great team, reporter and photojournalist. But eventually, after enough time passed, we realized we were really good at the best-friend thing. We were inseparable for almost ten years, except for the odd assignment that parted us by pulling us to different places, and despite the introduction of significant others.

“Yeah, I get it. I’d probably think the same thing, but”—I shrug—“you’ve seen us together. Know how Stell and I were—”

“Mutt and Jeff,” he mumbles as we both fall into a short silence, thinking of her. “I’m sorry about what’s-her-name. I liked her.”

“No, you didn’t.” I laugh loudly because his statement is the furthest thing from the truth. He just nods his head in agreement—everyone knew they didn’t get along. “But thanks. I think it had run its course before she changed assignments. You know what relationships are like with what we do.”

“Man, do I know it. What am I on here? Wife number three? Four? You’ve got the right idea with the let’s-have-fun versus the let’s-get-hitched mentality … but, uh, she just looked over here again and, fuck me, I’d make her wife number five for the night if she’d let me.”

The deep belly laugh he emits pulls a reluctant chuckle out of me, and it takes everything I have not to glance in the woman’s direction. Resistance is futile. Eventually I give in to curiosity and glance up, planning to avert my eyes before she looks our way again.

Green eyes meet mine and her dark hair is pulled back into a messy knot that should look unkempt but makes her sexy somehow. When our eyes connect, her lips fall open in surprise before they slowly correct themselves into a soft smile. I nod my head at her acknowledgment and then casually look away, hating and loving the pang in my gut that stirs to life.

I’m a man used to living on instinct, and something about her—yet nothing I can put my finger on—tells me I should steer clear. So why the fuck do I glance back up to see whether she’s still looking? And why do I care?

“I’m sure you would,” I finally say in answer to Pauly, a little slow in my response.

“She’s hot. I mean, how often do we get someone that fine in this neck of the woods? Damn, dude, her eyes are back on you now. She’s seriously checking you out.” He snickers.

“Yeah, and she’s probably some sheik’s wife. No, thanks—I’ll keep the hand they’d cut off just for looking at her.” I toss my napkin on the bar at the same time the barkeep slides another round in front of us.

“Better your hand than something else,” Pauly deadpans.

“Got that right.” I laugh.

“I might take the risk for her.” I glance over and look him up and down. He can’t be serious. “Okay. Maybe not.”

“Maybe not.” I scrub my hand over my clean-shaven face, knowing the smooth skin will soon be replaced by the scruff that just kind of happens when you live here. “She one of us?”

“She’s been here about two weeks. Freelance, I think. Don’t know much about her, but heard she’s a loose cannon of sorts. Always off on her own, taking unnecessary risks and getting into people’s business. I’ve steered clear other than a nod in the lobby.”

I grunt in response, because that’s just what I intend to do: steer clear of her. Too many newbies come in gung ho, trying to get the next big story, and end up getting someone hurt. Just like what happened to Stella.

“Well, for what it matters, loose cannon or not, I think you should go for it. She’ll probably be gone sooner rather than later, which is always a good thing—prevents attachment, and, shit, you never know when your next chance to taste those nine lives will be.” He winks at me and I can’t help but snort.

“Thanks, but I’ve got enough to worry about with how to figure out my new photog coming in tomorrow.” I roll my eyes and bring the shot glass back to my partially numb lips. My mind veers back to the fact that it’s been ten years since I’ve had to break in anybody new. I’m not looking forward to it.

“Well, tough shit, man,” he says, patting me on the back, “because she’s making a move for you.”

The resigned sigh falls from my mouth at the same time she slides onto the stool next to me. Gone is the distinct smell of this crowded bar, replaced by a clean and flowery scent as her perfume surrounds me. I keep my head down, eyes focused on the scratches in the wood bar, knowing that I don’t want the small zing I feel to flourish. At all.

But of course the longer we sit here, with me looking down and the full weight of her stare on me, I know I’m in a losing battle. I’ve got plenty of fight in me, just not for her right now. I need to head this off at the pass.

“Whatever you’re looking for, I’m not him.” I try not to sound too hostile, but my voice lacks any kind of warmth. I’ve been here, done this before. The newbies try to butter me up to get the scoop on everything inside town—and coming on the heels of the mess with Stella, I’m not giving anything to anybody.

“I don’t believe I’m looking for anything.” Her voice sounds as smooth as silk, with a hint of rasp. Why did I know she was going to have a sexy voice?

“Good.”

“Whiskey sour,” she says to the waiter, and I have to admit the order kind of surprises me. “And put it on his tab.”

I immediately look up to see the smirk on her face and the taunting glimmer in her green eyes. Intrigue has me keeping my gaze on her because I admire the fact she came back at me with her own line instead of scurrying away to lick her wounds. Can’t say the freelancer doesn’t have some chops.

“I don’t believe I offered to buy you one.” And the truth of the matter is I don’t give a flying fuck about the drink. I would’ve bought it anyway out of plain manners, but something tells me I just walked right into her well-maneuvered game, and fuck me if I’m going to stay here.

“Well, I don’t believe I asked you to be an asshole either, so the drink’s on you.” She raises her eyebrows as accepts the drink from the bartender, then brings it to her lips. And of course my eyes veer down to watch her run the tip of her tongue over the drop of liquid that falls there.

My mind drifts to the pleasure she could bring with her mouth and her tongue … purely out of male fascination.

“Then I guess you should steer clear of me and neither of us will have to worry about me being an asshole.” I grunt out the words, unsure why I’m pushing her away so hard when she’s done nothing wrong.

“So you’re the one, huh?”

Her comment stops me with my drink midway to my mouth, and my thought process falters as I slowly look over to her, trying to figure out what she means. “The one?”

“Yep, the one who every reporter in this room hates and wants to be all at the same time.”

I take in the glossy black hair pulled back so that little pieces fall down to frame her face and soften her strong cheekbones as I mull over her comment. When our eyes meet, there’s defiance laced with amusement in hers, and as much as I want to face her challenge head on, I won’t. Not here, not now—and definitely not with a room packed with other journalists who are watching my every move to see if I’m going to fall apart in some way or another.

I motion to the bottle of Fireball sitting across from me and look at the bartender as I slide my money toward him. He picks up the bottle and sets it in front of me at the same time that I scoot my chair back. When I grab the neck of the bottle, I look back and give her a half-cocked smile. “Yep, I’m the one.”

And without so much as another word, I head out of the bar. The guys give me shit as I walk past about being a pansy-ass until I hold up the whisky bottle to show them I’m not really turning in early. Pauly catches my eye and nods, knowing where I’m headed and that I need the solitude I can find there.

The fucking problem, though, is even as I ascend the steps in the dank stairwell, the only thing I can think about is her.