PROLOGUE

MOMMY ISSUES

Kingston

I have six different drinks in front of me, ranging from very expensive scotch to some kind of carbonated fruity cocktail that’s so sweet I’m positive I’ll get a cavity if I finish it. Despite the variety, I’m still having trouble getting drunk. Mostly because I’m not a fan of the way alcohol tastes, so I’ve only had a couple sips out of each glass.

“Excuse me, is this seat taken?” A soft, slightly smoky female voice draws my attention to the left, where the stool next to mine sits empty.

I notice several things as her gray-blue eyes, ringed in navy, lock and hold with mine: she’s pint size and stunning, with long chestnut hair pulled up in a loose ponytail, high cheekbones, full lips, and thick lashes that don’t appear to be coated in mascara. But beyond how beautiful she is, she looks sad.

We match.

“Uh, no, it’s all yours.” Regardless of my sour mood, I push back my stool and stand, partly to make space for her, since the stools are crammed in close together.

She climbs into the one next to mine before I have a chance to offer my assistance.

“I’m Queenie.” She holds out a hand, and when I do the same, she slips hers into my palm, sending a jolt of unexpected energy through me. The way her eyes flare makes me think she’s felt it too. Maybe there’s something in the air.

“Queenie?” I smile. “I’m Ryan.” I don’t know why I introduce myself this way. No one calls me Ryan except for my parents. Even my siblings call me by our last name most of the time. In part because of my career choice, where my last name is what most people recognize. It’s too late now to backtrack. Maybe I don’t use my last name because my entire identity has been brought into question thanks to today’s events.

“Hi, Ryan.” Her gaze darts down and then back up. Our palms are still connected. And I’m still staring at her.

I release her hand and instantly want to find a reason to touch her again.

The bartender is quick to spot his new customer. I take my seat again while Queenie orders. “I’ll have a vodka martini, extra dirty, extra olives, please. Actually, make that two.”

The bartender’s eyebrows rise, but he gets out his shaker. She stops him when he reaches for the bottle on the shelf behind him and asks for well vodka instead. I’m not sure what the difference is between the two, but that gets another eyebrow raise from the bartender. He fills two martini glasses and drops a skewer of olives into each one. He looks to me before he moves on. “You still doing okay?”

“I’m fine, thank you.”

I try not to stare at Queenie, but I can see her reflection in the mirrored bar. She takes a sip out of one glass and makes a face, then does the same with the other one. She transfers one of the skewers of olives to the other glass and downs the whole thing in two gulps.

Her shoulders curl in, and she turns her head away, coughing into her elbow.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

She holds up a finger and coughs a couple more times. When she finally looks my way, her eyes are watery and her cheeks are flushed. “Fine, thanks. Well vodka isn’t very smooth going down.”

“Oh.” I don’t know much about vodka. “Why didn’t you have the other kind, then?”

“Because it costs twice as much, and I just lost my job, so I have to get drunk on the cheap stuff.” She plucks one of the skewers of olives from the still-full martini glass and pops one in her mouth.

“I’m sorry that you lost your job.”

She gives me another wry smile. “Thanks. I kind of sucked at it, though, so it’s not much of a surprise. Plus, serving tables isn’t my endgame, so this is sort of a wake-up call to figure out what I want to do with the rest of my life.” She motions to my lineup of drinks. “What’s going on here?”

“I’m trying to get drunk too.”

“You’d have a lot more success if you actually drank them.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m not big on alcohol,” I admit.

She scans me slowly, her grin growing wider once again. “Can’t really say I’m surprised to hear that. You look like you got lost on your way to a Boy Scouts meeting.”

“I used to be a Boy Scout.” I run a hand over my chest. I’m wearing a white polo and khakis, which is my usual attire. “I was even a camp counselor when I was a teenager.”

She throws her head back and laughs. “God, you’re adorable. And I mean that in a good way.” Queenie props her cheek on her fist. “So tell me why a former Boy Scout and camp counselor would need to get drunk by himself.”