Excerpt of Hitting on the Hooker by Mina Carter

She’d been stood up. Unbelievable.

Fern Morgan checked her watch, a thin gold affair that always ended up with the face on the underside of her wrist, and wrinkled her nose. Yup, forty minutes late and no message. Greg had stood her up. Great. No doubt he’d had a better offer. Story of her life. Her love life wasn’t just DOA, it had been MIA for at least the last couple of years.

Checking out the level in her glass, she abandoned any pretence of being a lady and downed the drink in one swallow. She grimaced. Wine had never been her favorite. Since it seemed her date wasn’t going to show his face, the next round would be whatever the hell she wanted.

“Vodka and lime,” she ordered when she had the bartender’s attention, ignoring his pitying look at the fact that she was still alone. He’d probably seen it all, so there was no point bluffing. A woman didn’t sit at a bar—on her own—for almost an hour for kicks and giggles, not a high class one like this. No, this was date territory, a venue classy enough to make that all-important first impression. Which meant the décor was first class, as were the prices of the drinks.

Greg had picked it. Bastard.

“Vodka for the lady.” The bartender slid the glass in front of her, the ice inside clinking together as it stopped. “Can I get you anything else?”

Sensing he wanted to hang around and chat, she shook her head. After a long week at work, and the disappointed anticipation of a not-date with Greg from Acquisitions, she wasn’t in the mood. All she wanted to do was commune with her drink, get happily buzzed, and head on home to seek consolation in the tub of icecream she kept on reserve at the back of the freezer.

Looking up after the bartender moved off, she caught sight of herself in the mirror behind the bar. The wrong side of thirty, her shift-dress covered a figure with a few more curves than she would have liked. Whatever she did, no amount of sweating it out in the gym or starving herself would get those last few stubborn pounds to move, so she’d given up.

Her hair was short and sleek, a neat bob that framed her face, the dark color natural. Thank God. She couldn’t do the whole once a month ordeal some women at the office went through to stay blonde, or black, or whatever color they’d decided they wanted to be.

Her face was made up, but in the subtle style she preferred. A slick of lippy, a quick flick of eyeliner a la Audrey Hepburn, some mascara, and she was done. No false lashes here, thank you very much. She’d tried them once, and ended up with the bloody things stuck to her cheek like damn caterpillars. Never again.

Bored with her reflection—after all, it was nothing new—she took a healthy sip of her drink and savoured the burn as it went down. Damn, that was good vodka. No watering down here, that was for sure, which was a bloody good job with these prices. She cast a baleful look at the wine list by her elbow. She earned good money, but these prices were ludicrous.

The door at the front of the bar crashed open, and loud male voices announced the arrival of a large group. The bar staff froze for a second before the one nearest to her, the one who had tried to engage her in conversation, groaned.

“Great, the Sharks. Molly, I’m heading out on my break.” And with that he was gone, leaving the girl at the other end of the bar shooting a glare full of daggers after him.

Fern studied the chaos at the front of the bar through the mirror. The Strathstow Sharks were famous for their abilities on the pitch, the favoured sons of the town when they’d stormed to victory in the premiership and won the cup, and infamous for their somewhat exuberant nights out in the local bars. They were loud, brash, and could be a pain in the backside when celebrating.

If she’d know they were playing today, she might have thought twice about coming out tonight—date with Greg or not. A night in might have worked a lot better. Couple of vodkas and a chance to scratch the itch that had been bugging her for months… Christ, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d had sex. Long days at work and exhaustion had limited her options for meeting prospective partners. Thank God for vibrators. Without them, she’d have gone nuts.

The crowd moved closer to the bar, filling the empty space next to her as they all tried shouting their orders to the poor, harassed-looking Molly all at the same time. Fern huffed and shook her head, burying her nose back into her glass. When would they learn that they’d get their drinks quicker if they organised themselves, and one person ordered?

“SHUT THE HELL UP!”

A voice roared above the melee, and silence fell. Interested, she looked over as a man fought his way to the front of the group. Like the rest, he was suited and booted, but in his case, the smart jacket barely contained a powerful physique. Shorter than the rest, he had a set of shoulders on him as big as a barn, and a vicious bruise decorated one cheekbone.

Despite that, it was obvious he was the man in charge. Quickly, he collected orders and relayed them to Molly behind the bar in a low voice Fern couldn’t make out over the baying of the others as they pushed and jostled.

Shaking her head, she took another swallow from her drink and tried to ignore them. As soon as she was done, she was out of here in search of a tub of Ben & Jerry’s and a DVD. Something with explosions and car chases should do it…