3

Rita

I sip my non-alcoholic drink, eat my healthy deep-fried wings, and think about the way Scar shoved the seatbelt over my body. It's hard not to daydream about that man, with those big hands, beautiful eyes, his shoulders like mountains, his slim-fitted suits—if he weren't such a nightmare, I'd probably find him attractive.

Fortunately, I don't. He's handsome, but that's different from being attractive. I want to look at him in a purely clinical way, like how I look at statues in museums.

I don't want to get anywhere near him.

Except for when he gets all bossy and shoves the seatbelt down over me.

Then maybe, just maybe, I wouldn't mind if he got a little bit more exploratory. With his hands. On my body.

God, Rita, get it together.

An hour passes. Then another. Then I'm creeping up on hour three and the bar's jam-packed. I'm on my third basket of fries, my second order of wings, and like my tenth club soda. At this point I'm pretty sure the bartender hates me for taking up valuable