Chapter 2The Script of Destiny

When I got back to our booth, my buddy was gone. There was no one to share my moment of utter humiliation with. I grabbed the rest of the liquor on the table and downed it, trying to numb the sting of rejection.

But the more I drank, the fuzzier my head got. I touched my cheek. It was burning up.

Crap. I was drunk.

I have a tendency to run my mouth when I’m drunk, and to avoid another soul-crushingly embarrassing incident, my only thought was to get home. Fast.

I called my buddy. No answer.

I looked down at the sofa. Of course. His phone was in his jacket, and his jacket was right next to me.

I waited a bit longer, but he didn’t come back. I had no choice but to go find him. I pushed myself up and staggered through the maze of tables, plunging into the crowd. The bar was dark, and my slight nearsightedness, amplified by the alcohol, made it impossible to recognize faces. I could only look for his clothes.

After weaving through half the bar, I finally spotted his back on the terrace. White shirt, black pants. That was him.

As I got closer, I saw he was facing away from me, a cigarette between his fingers, head slightly bowed. He looked completely absorbed, like he was trying to pull off some kind of brooding, handsome poet vibe. It was so not him.

Trying to look all deep and mysterious without me, huh?

I let out a low snort. A wicked idea sparked in my mind. My eyes traveled down his back, stopping when they reached his ass. I grinned.

I strode forward, wound up, and with all my might, I brought my hand down flat on his perfectly round, firm-looking butt.

SMACK!

The sound was crisp and loud.

He froze, his whole body tensing up from the shock, his ass muscles clenching tight.

Mission accomplished. My hand was still pressed against him. The texture was soft and springy, with just a hint of startled rigidity. Well, I’d already slapped it. It felt so nice… one little squeeze couldn't hurt, right?

I couldn’t resist. I gave it a couple of squeezes.

As I did, I looked up with a goofy grin. “Feel good?”

“Are you sick?”

My voice and a voice that was definitely not my buddy’s rang out at the same time.

But even faster than the voice was the face that loomed into view—a beautiful, furious face. Her brows were knitted together, her eyes blazing with a rage she was barely containing.

I knew that face.

It was the woman who had just shut me down with her marriage certificate.

Shit. Wrong person.

I yanked my hand back and hid it behind me like a guilty child. She turned to face me fully, dropped her cigarette, and ground it out with her shoe.

She didn't say a word. She just took a long step toward me. I instinctively took two steps back.

“I’m so sorry,” I stammered. “I… I thought you were someone else. I didn’t mean to… your, uh, your ass is just so… springy…”

Her expression turned to ice. My drunk brain, now under the pressure of her murderous glare, was short-circuiting. I couldn’t form a single normal sentence.

Her chest heaved with fury. She clutched her offended butt, the tips of her ears turning a deep, telltale red. “You again?” she seethed. “Didn’t I tell you I was married? Harassing a married woman… have you no shame? Do you not understand English? Or did you not get a good enough look at the certificate? You want to see it again?”

She started digging in her purse for the certificates again.

I waved my hands frantically. “No, no, no, that’s okay! I wish you and your husband a long and happy life together. I’ll just be going…”

“Wait,” she snapped, cutting me off. “You’re not going anywhere.”

I looked up. Her expression was dead serious, but there was a flicker of desperation in her eyes, a tremor of panic in her voice.

“My marriage certificates are gone.”