First message
Connor saw the woman from across the bar and immediately decided she was hot.
Not cute.
Not pretty.
Hot. Smoking hot.
Older, too. Definitely older.
Which was fine.
He was confident. He was charming. He had a great smile. This was manageable.
He abandoned his friends mid-conversation and slid onto the stool beside her.
“Hey. I’m Connor.”
Conversation came easily. Then came the problem.
She looked him up and down, taking in the letterman jacket, backwards cap, and probably every other detail that screamed college student. She mentioned she was thirty-two. Older. And she didn’t date younger guys.
Then she turned back toward her drink, like the conversation was already over.
Connor stared at his own drink for half a second.
Okay.
He was twenty-three.
She didn’t need to know that.
He’d be twenty-four soon.
Twenty-four was basically twenty-five.
Twenty-five was basically twenty-six.
Twenty-six was basically—
“Twenty-nine,” Connor said smoothly.
Perfect.
He took another drink, entirely satisfied with his quick thinking.
She had no reason to know otherwise.
And Connor had absolutely no intention of letting a technicality stop him from getting her to invite him back to her place by the end of the night.
He turned toward her with an easy grin.
“So, what brings you here tonight?”