No Second Chances Ex-husband (Lauren and Ethan) novel Chapter 61

LAUREN'S POV

“What’s not gonna work?” the guy asked, his tone casual, like he had no idea what I was accusing him of.

For a second, I almost laughed at the audacity. Men like him always pretended to be clueless when caught in the act, like they hadn’t just been trying to slide their way into something they had no business asking for. But luckily for him, I had time tonight, too much time, honestly and I was more than ready to spell it out for him, word by word, if that’s what it would take to make him understand. If he wanted to play dumb, then I would treat him like a child.

“You think I don’t know what you’re trying to do?” I shot back, my voice cold and sharp enough to cut glass. “You think a few smooth words will make me open my legs for you? Wrong move, Mr. Wrong Time. I didn’t even come here of my own will, and I sure as hell don’t plan on sleeping with you or anyone else. So why don’t you take those so-called charms and try them on another lady? I’m not the one.”

His expression didn’t change much, except for the faint twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth. Instead of looking offended or embarrassed, he tilted his head slightly, as though he was trying to study me.

“You do realize you were the first person to talk to me, right?” he replied smoothly. “I just came here for a drink, minding my business, until you demanded an apology. And for the record, I have a name. It’s Roman.” He extended his hand toward me, palm open, waiting for me to take it like we were two strangers at a polite dinner party instead of two people practically sparring in the middle of a bar.

Did he not hear a single thing I just said? I stared at his hand, my stomach twisting with irritation. He had to be mocking me. My eyes flicked from his hand back to his face, and the look in his eyes was steady, calm.

“Relax, okay,” he said gently, lowering his tone as though he sensed I was seconds away from snapping. “I don’t bite. And I’m not trying to sleep with you, either. I just find you interesting, and I’d like to know your name.”

My mouth parted in disbelief. “And why on earth would you want to know my name? I’m not the only woman here. There are dozens of girls around, all smiling, all waiting to be noticed. Why don’t you go find out their names instead of bothering me?”

“Because you’re different,” he said simply, shrugging one shoulder. “That’s why I’m interested in you. You’re not like the others. Even though we’ve only been talking for, what, fifteen minutes?”

The way he said it caught me off guard. Not his words, exactly, but the sincerity behind them. His eyes didn’t have that gleam of arrogance most men carried when they thought they were saying something clever. It made me pause.

I picked up my glass again, sipping slowly, giving myself a moment to think. Part of me wanted to dismiss him instantly. If I went by looks alone, I would’ve sworn Roman was just another player — expensive shirt, that self-assured posture, I’d seen it all before.

But then again, hadn’t I once thought Ethan was different? Who would have guessed that he, of all people, would cheat on me? That memory stung, the ache raw and heavy in my chest. I hated myself for even thinking of him now, for letting him creep back into my head when I should’ve been free.

No, I reminded myself. I can’t judge every man by Ethan’s betrayal. If I did, I’d end up bitter forever. Still, that didn’t mean I had to open myself up to anyone.

Maybe telling Roman my name wouldn’t hurt. Just my name, nothing more. I didn’t plan on exchanging numbers, didn’t plan on keeping in touch. Tonight wasn’t about meeting someone new. Tonight was about me and my space.

I let out a dry laugh. “Still surprised guys still use the name Roman in the modern world,” I said finally, shaking my head. “Anyway… I’m Lauren.”

I slid my hand into his, firm and quick, making sure it was nothing more than a handshake.

“Lauren, such a unique name. It’s nice to meet you,” he said, his lips curling into a half-smile that revealed just enough confidence to make me roll my eyes.

“Jeez,” I muttered, my voice dripping with exasperation. “Why is it so hard to communicate with you? Didn’t you hear what I just said? I can’t drink alcohol because I have an interview tomorrow.” The frustration was already building, making its way into my tone.

But he didn’t even flinch. Instead, he leaned closer, his voice dropping slightly, almost as if he thought he was letting me in on some secret truth. “No, you can’t use that as an excuse. I go to interviews too, well, something similar to interviews and I’ve drunk the night before, and still did outstanding in the meeting.”

I crossed my arms over my chest, narrowing my eyes. His confidence was irritating, the kind of reckless energy that made you want to argue, yet somehow tempted you to prove him wrong.

“Besides,” he continued smoothly, as though my silence had given him permission, “you look tough. I don’t expect just five small shots to get you drunk. I’m sure you can do more than that.”

He pushed one of the glasses toward me, his hand steady, his gaze locked firmly on mine.

“Come on,” he said softly, a hint of challenge flickering in his tone. “Just try these five. You’ll still be alright.”

And there it was again that relentless persistence. The audacity to push when I had already said no, the insistence that he somehow knew me better than I knew myself.

I looked at the shot glass sitting in front of me, the amber liquid catching the dim glow of the bar lights. The smell of strong liquor wafted faintly from it, sharp and biting, so different from the sweet tang of my orange juice.