The door swings violently open and I almost lose my footing. One thing I can’t seem to stop doing is tripping in front of a guy — literally and metaphorically — which is why I threw on these ultra comfortable yet sexy mules. My toes, painted fuchsia, still peek through but my balance can remain intact.

I’m a few feet away from Gary, whom I met a few weeks ago right here at this bar, and get the fanny flutters as I approach. He’s facing the TV screen, the NBA Finals on and the crowd pumped as the Knicks are close to winning the NBA Championship.

“Knicks in 5!” the crowd chants. I watch Gary pump his fist in the air as Brunson scores a 3. He looks good in a Knicks jersey. Number 11 on his broad, muscular back — a back so chiseled he could cut my skin with one touch. His jet black curly hair sits in waves and I yearn to run my fingers through it. But I’m trying to be better. Smarter. This is our first date. And I will not fall in love or give up my cuca.

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“Hey!” I yell over the crowd, sliding myself next to him. Gary looks at me and smiles, pulling me into an embrace. I inhale his smell — a mix of ember and cardamom — and am grateful for the bartender’s interruption before I get the urge to make out with Gary right here, right now.

“What you having, love?”

My eyes move from Gary to the bartender.

Connor.

Connor the bartender. Connor the boy I hooked up with on and off last summer and fell for hard, hoping he would put a ring on it — or at least take me home to his momma — only to be ghosted.

I’m speechless. Gobsmacked. Holy shit. It’s Connor.

“Candi, what are you drinking?” Gary asks, eyes still on the Knicks game.

“A fireball shot…please.” The word comes out through my teeth as I try to maintain my cool and not blow my cover — or blow it with Gary. The last thing I need is for a complicated situationship to ruin something that could actually be good. Again.

This is a recurring theme in my life.

Connor nods, eyes locked on mine. He turns around, pours the shot, and places it in front of me.

“There you go,” he says nonchalantly. “Your favorite.” His eyes twinkle with mischief and there goes my cuca again. My heart beats a mile a minute while she throbs, remembering our intimate moments that left me hooting and hollering like a cat in heat.

I gulp down my shot, clear the burn in my throat, and turn to Gary, who is oblivious because, well, the Knicks.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” I say, planting a kiss on his cheek. “Be right back.”

I weave through the crowded bar, find the bathroom, and swing the door open with such fury that I stumble on the door crack and topple back. I grab the knob to prevent an epic fall, to add to my collection of epic falls, when I feel two firm, strong hands wrap around my waist. I can smell him. My sense of smell has never failed me.

Connor.

His breath is on my neck and he plants a wet kiss with his full lips, the bristle of his stubble sending flashbacks of the burn he’d leave on my face after hours of devouring each other.

“No.” I whisper, steadying myself before turning around. “You don’t get to do that.” Tears well up in my eyes and I shake my head quickly to snap out of it. I can’t give this guy another ounce of my energy, and especially not my tears.

“Candi,” he murmurs. “You know, we had a good time and all.” He pauses. “A great time, actually.” He licks his lips.

I blush. My body goes into overdrive.

“But I wasn’t ready for anything serious and—”

Fuck it.

I grab him by his Knicks jersey and pull him into the solo bathroom, slamming the door shut with my mule. I slam him against the door. Our tongues dance and I take him all in. Connor rubs my ass, moving his hands toward my pussy, finding my nub. I moan, knowing what’s to come and not caring about the consequences — Gary, my feelings, pride. I just want him.

A knock at the door and we part.

“Candi, you okay?”

Gary. I look at Connor frantically. He has to go. But how? And why do I keep getting myself into these messes?

“I should come clean,” I say. Connor stands there with that smirk on his face. Bad boy. And I love it.

“No. I got you.”

He walks to the bathroom window, opens it, and jumps out. Before he disappears, he turns back, winks, and says, “Always great to see you, Candi.”

And he’s gone.

“Coming!” I call to Gary.

I reapply my lipstick, fix my hair, adjust my shorts, and open the door.

“You ready? Halftime is almost over.”

“Ready!” I say, plastering on my best smile. “Let’s go Knicks!”

I slide back onto my barstool, Gary’s hand finding my knee, the crowd roaring around us. I reach for my phone and open my Notes app.

Tonight’s lesson: always stalk the bar’s IG for the staff lineup.

Or just stay home.

Want more Candi? She’s messier, spicier, and even more loveable in her debut novella. Grab your copy → READ CANDI