“Shake it off, babe-you know you’re hot stuff.”

The drinks were so-so at Ryan’s Pub, but it was nice to see a familiar face, nice to hear Joe’s staunch support. Trish had been wandering into this pub off and on for five years, and hung out with her girlfriends there twice a month after their bowling night. “You know what, Joe? I don’t feel like shaking it off. I want to feel sorry for myself tonight.”

Maybe she wasn’t justified. After all, she had a budding career as county prosecutor of domestic violence, a great apartment, and good hair. But men didn’t seem to appreciate any of those things. She didn’t think she was asking too much. It wasn’t like she expected comfortable pantyhose to be invented. She just wanted a nice guy, loyal, honest, friendly.

She supposed she could get a dog.

But Kindra and Mack’s yappy poodle annoyed the hell out of her. A lizard was more her style.

“If you’re going to feel sorry for yourself, slide on down the bar and join my buddy Caleb there. He’s having a hell of a pity party tonight.”

Without much interest, she glanced over. A guy was propping his head up with a massive, muscular arm, and trying to sip his beer without lifting his head. Moisture from the bottle dribbled onto the bar and his arm, and he made a halfhearted swipe at it. A quick count showed six empty bottles in front of him.

Now there was a winner. Hold her back.

“Do you know him?” she asked Joe, hoping she didn’t look that pathetic. This guy looked like he’d set down some serious roots in Loserville.

“Yeah, I’ve known him for more than fifteen years. We played ball in high school together and he’s a good friend.” Joe leaned on the counter, moving closer to her, and kept his voice low. “He never drinks.”

The six bottles hadn’t emptied themselves. “Could’ve fooled me.”