I'LL Have Both

Tanya’s POV

Who knew dating would feel so much like a damn job? And not even the fun kind with snacks in the breakroom and “casual Fridays.” No, this felt like a soul-sucking nine-to-five, only with more mascara and less health insurance. Exhausting. Absolutely exhausting.

I sat curled on my sofa, blanket tucked around me like a burrito of self-pity, replaying the pep talk-slash-intervention Meridith had delivered last week. “I don’t need a man,” I’d told her. Loud, proud, rolling my eyes for emphasis. But Meridith, sweet, persistent, stubborn-as-a-mule Meridith, never lets things go. So of course she’d set me up with Brent. Cute Brent. Polite Brent. Eric’s brother Brent. Nice enough, sure, but after Trevor had fried my last nerve. Hell no.

God. Trevor. Just thinking his name made my left eye twitch. Two years of my life poured straight into the garbage disposal and shredded. And for what? For him to cheat, with Lisa, of all people. Lisa, my so-called “friend.” The woman who borrowed my shoes, ate my snacks, and smiled in my face while plotting in the shadows like a knockoff Disney villain. Fake bitch.

The worst part? I wasn’t even heartbroken. Not even close. I wasn’t crying into tubs of ice cream or stalking his social media. No. I was furious at myself, for wasting time on a man who couldn’t even cover dinner without pulling the “oh, I forgot my wallet” trick. Small dick, smaller ambition, cheapest bastard this side of town. A walking disappointment in Jordans he couldn’t afford.

And that’s what kills me most. I am a successful damn accountant. I crunch numbers, run audits, and make men in three-piece suits sweat when they realize I’ve spotted “creative math” in their books. I work hard. I pay my own bills, buy my own shit, and can drop a down payment on a house if I feel like it. So why the hell did I waste two years letting Trevor sponge off me like some broke-ass intern? I should’ve known better.

The only reason I stayed that long? He could eat pussy like it was his damn calling. I’ll give him that. My ass was hypnotized. Trained. Hooked. The memory of that one time, in the parking lot, me gripping the seat, toes curled, his tongue and fingers tag-teaming me until my legs gave out, still haunted me. Embarrassing, filthy, unforgettable. I hated myself for even remembering this shit.

“Snap out of it,” I muttered, shaking my head hard enough to make my curls bounce.

Dragging myself off the couch, I went to shower, already dreading the interrogation waiting on the other side of tomorrow. Meridith would want details about the Brent Date. What did he order? Did he compliment me? Did I laugh at his jokes? Did I feel “a spark”? Ugh. I needed a flashcard with one word: No.

After my shower, I padded back into my room, robe cinched tight, hair damp, cheeks warm. Answered a couple emails, closed the laptop like it had personally offended me. Conference call with Brad in the morning. Ugh, Brad. King of Can’t-Take-A-Hint. I’ve turned him down so many times I’m starting to lose count. He asks, I say no. He asks again, I say no. What part of “no” sounds like “keep trying” to these men?

By the time I looked at the clock, it was 2 a.m. Sleep wasn’t happening. Counting sheep? Pointless. The little bastards just jumped fences and stared at me like “Girl, fix your life.” So I groaned, yanked on black jeans and a hoodie, grabbed my keys, and decided to drive.

The night air was cool, crisp. The moon was showing off, too damn bright for my mood, spotlighting every street like it was auditioning for Broadway. I drove aimlessly, windows cracked, music low, until my car “accidentally” parked outside Pub Delight. Habit. Reflex. Muscle memory. Shirl’s place always hit different when the world felt heavy.

Inside, the bar smelled like wood polish, lemon cleaner, and faint desperation. Empty at this hour, thirty minutes before close. Perfect. Or so I thought. Because the universe clearly hates me.

There he was. Some buff dude holding the door like he owned the joint. Jeans clinging to his thighs, white T-shirt stretched across his chest like fabric was optional, leather jacket completing the “I’m trouble” starter pack. He even smelled good, like soap, smoke, and temptation.

“After you, ma’am,” he said smoothly, voice dipped in honey and sin.

I mumbled a quick “Thanks” and tried to breeze past. Nope. Not looking. Not interested. Not tonight.

Shirl’s eyes lit up the second she spotted me. “Can’t sleep again?”

“The Grey Goose keeps calling my name,” I sighed, dropping onto a stool.

“One Grey Goose, coming right up,” she said with a laugh.

Of course. Of course. Mr. Buff Leather Jacket sat right next to me. All these empty stools, and he chose mine like we were in some cheesy romcom setup.

“What can I get you?” Shirl asked him.

“I’ll have what she’s having,” he answered with a smirk.

“Another asshole,” I muttered under my breath. A sexy asshole, but still.

Shirl set my drink down, and I downed it in one go, signaling for another. The bite of vodka burned deliciously, steadying me. Funny thing, I had three bottles of the same stuff at home, but nothing ever tasted like Shirl’s pour.

“Easy there, Missy,” Buff Guy teased. “Don’t outdrink me.”

I tilted my head, annoyed, ready to clap back, until I actually looked at him.

Damn. Brown eyes. Like smooth leader, sharp and unrelenting. Perfectly trimmed beard framing lips so full I caught myself imagining things I had no business imagining. And that smile, smug, knowing, like he already read my dirty little thoughts.

“I’m Derick,” he said, extending a hand.

“I don’t remember asking,” I shot back, tone sharp enough to slice glass.

He didn’t flinch. Not one bit. Unbothered.

“Feisty,” he drawled. “Don’t worry, I don’t bite. Unless you want me to.” Smirk. Full, cocky smirk.

I opened my mouth, ready to shut him down. Ready to unleash the whole arsenal of sarcasm, when karma decided to humiliate me. I stumbled. Fell right into him.

And oh. My. God.

His chest was solid. Warm. Smelled like roses tangled with lavender, clean and intoxicating. My body betrayed me instantly, slick heat pooling between my thighs just from that one accidental touch. My stomach flipped, breath caught, and for one shameful second I wanted to stay there. Just… stay.

Then he laughed, and reality slammed me back.

“Well, now you’ve assaulted me,” he teased. “But don’t worry, I won’t press charges. One condition, though…” His eyes sparkled with mischief.

Embarrassed as hell, I looked away, praying the floor would open up and swallow me whole. Thank God for melanin hiding the blush I knew was creeping in.

He scribbled something on a napkin, slid it across the bar, then leaned back like he owned the damn world. Didn’t even push. Didn’t say another word. Just smirked.

I grabbed the napkin without looking, shoved it into my pocket, and bolted. No goodbye to Shirl, no second glance at him. I just needed air. Distance.

Because one thing was already painfully clear, Derick was dangerous.

And I was already in trouble.