Free i ad48559fe7dd7a05 by Unknown Page A

just reached drinking age. The ‘girls’ looked like movie stars and models--for that matter, so did the young men.
    Despite the hard life I’d led, I had always taken an interest in my appearance and had worked hard to stay in good shape, keep my weight down. I was more voluptuous than thin, but definitely not fat and hadn’t realized the hour glass figure I was so proud of seemed to have gone the way of the dinosaurs. I’d thought, until I entered the dating zone, that I looked pretty damned good for a woman who had forty breathing down her neck.
    Maybe I did, but I still looked thirty-ish, no matter what, and these girls looked twenty-ish—about the age of my ex-husband’s new wife.
    I was about to get up and slink out the door like a whipped dog with his tail between his legs when a waitress appeared. “What’ll you have?”
    I hesitated. Maybe one drink? I could nurse it and sit for a while and then, always supposing anyone at all had noticed my arrival, I wouldn’t look quite so much like a whipped dog when I left.
    “How much is a screwdriver?”
    She told me. It sounded like an awful stiff price for one little drink, but I nodded. While she was gone, I dug into my purse and counted my money—twice. It was all still there, all ten dollars. Well, one drink wouldn’t break me. It couldn’t when I was already broke.
    I noticed a young man struggling through the crowd in my direction after the waitress had left. My heart executed a little flip flop. I might be thirty something, but I could still admire a pretty face! He was gorgeous! Tall, nearly six feet I guessed or maybe a little over six, well built, and as handsome as a young movie star, his face all hard angles and planes that made me breathless just looking at it.
    Why, I wondered, had men not looked like that when I was young? I couldn’t recall even one that had looked this good. There had been plenty that were handsome, some that were pretty well built—the football players—but nothing in this kind of heart-stopping package.
    I wondered where he was heading.
    I looked around. I knew there were no tables behind me. I was near the wall, but maybe I’d settled near the entrance to the men’s room? I didn’t see a door though.
    He’d reached the table before it occurred to me that I must be sitting at his table.
    He propped his elbows on the table, favored me with a heart stopping smile, and leaned close. “You come here often?”
    I stared at him blankly, shaking my head slowly like someone who was mentally deficient.
    “Mind if I sit down?”
    “Uh, no.” I supposed he couldn’t find a seat either. I stared at the dance floor, trying not to look as uncomfortable as I felt. He was stunning, but I seriously doubted if he was much older than my oldest son.
    He leaned close again. “My name’s Rance. What’s yours?”
    His cologne, when he leaned close, sent my senses reeling--or maybe it was just being that close to him.
    I ignored the rush of excitement, staring at him in fascination when he straightened in his seat once more.
    “Delilah,” I said finally, deciding that he was just trying to be polite.
    He leaned close again, draping an arm over the back of my chair. “What’s that?”
    The waitress arrived with my drink. Relieved at the distraction, I snatched up my purse, fumbled for my wallet. By the time I’d retrieved it, I discovered the young man was paying for the drink and ordering a beer for himself. “Oh. You shouldn’t have done that!”
    He waved a hand, dismissing my protest. “My treat!”
    “But…!”
    “What did you say your name was again?”
    “Delilah.”
    A faint smile curled his lips. “As in Sampson and?”
    I felt a blush rising. “Everybody just calls me Lilah.”
    He chuckled. His laugh was as nice as his voice. It raised goose bumps. “I think I’m going to call you Delight.”
    I suspected he was making fun of me and felt my blush deepen to a dark, and probably very unflattering, scarlet.
    He