A better question would have been what didn’t he do? Lewis tossed the napkin on the bar. He’d been drowning in the karma from a decade of bad decisions for the past nine months. “Nothing,” he lied. “One minute we were talking, the next I had a maraschino cherry in my hair.”

      “Just like that?”

      “Yeah, just like that.”

      She knew he was lying. It was evident from the look she shot him over the rim of her glass.

      “You’re leaving something out,” she said. “I can tell by the way you’re not saying anything.”

      “What?”

      “You heard me.” She was swaying on her bar stool, the way someone did when the room was starting to spin. Hopefully the bartender was paying attention. “People don’t toss perfectly good drinks for no reason,” she said. “Especially good drinks. So what did you do?”

      It was none of her business, Lewis wanted to say, except the glint in her eye made him bite his tongue. Even drunk, she had an astuteness about her.

      What the heck. She’d hear anyway. “I might have asked them for their names.”

      “You forgot who they were? Both of them? After you slept with them?”

      He didn’t say he was proud of it. In fact, he was horrified. “They were from my playing days,” he replied.

      “Oh, why didn’t you say so? They were from his playing days,” she announced to the bartender. “That totally makes it all right.”

      “I didn’t say it was right. Just that’s why I forgot them.” He was lucky he remembered his playing days at all.

      “I completely understand. It must have been hard keeping all those groupies straight.”

      Yes, it was, because there had been a lot of groupies and a lot of alcohol and they were all a giant blur of bad behavior. Lewis kept his mouth shut, however, because it was no excuse. Besides, the woman was drunk and he knew from experience that alcohol and arguing didn’t mix. “Are you always this sarcastic to people you just met?” he asked.

      “Meh. Depends on how easy a target.”

      “You’re saying I’m easy.”

      She eyed him through her lashes. “You tell me, Champagne.”

      How he hated that name. If he never heard the nickname again, it wouldn’t be soon enough. The irony of the situation—if that was the right word—was that he didn’t remember the picture being taken.

      “I’m beginning to see why you don’t have friends.”

      His companion’s lower lip started to tremble.

      Terrific. On top of everything, he’d gone and hurt her feelings. Why not stomp on a puppy for an encore? “You’re not going to cry, are you?”

      She responded with a sniff. “Don’t be silly. I don’t cry.”

      She was doing a darn good impression of tearing up. Lewis handed her one of the cocktail napkins from his pile. “Here, dry your eyes.”

      “I told you. I’m not going to cry.”

      “Then wipe your nontears with it before they make your mascara run,” he said. “And, I’m sorry. The comment was uncalled for.”

      “Yes, it was. It’s also true.”

      “I’m sure it’s…”

      “I’m in a bar getting drunk by myself and no one from upstairs has noticed I’m missing.”

      “I’m sure someone has noticed,” Lewis replied. Granted, she wasn’t the kind of girl he’d look for, but she was hardly forgettable. Her black dress was sexy in a naughty-secretary way—prim but tight enough to show she had curves. She had black curly hair that she’d pulled into a high ponytail—to match the dress he presumed. It worked together to give her a no-nonsense vibe. If there was such a thing as a no-nonsense sex kitten, she was it.

      “If it helps, no one’s looking for me either,” he said.

      “Of course they aren’t,” she said, dabbing her eyes. “You insulted two women.”

      “And here I’d gone five whole minutes without thinking of my stupidity.” Good to know her tears didn’t dull the bite of her tongue.

      “Now you know why no one’s looking for me, except my friend here.” She waved her half-empty martini glass, the red liquid sloshing against the sides. “Unless you want your reputation to get worse, you might want to slide down a few stools.”

      “Trust me, my reputation can’t get much worse, luv.” A drink in the face was nothing when everyone in the UK thought you were washed up. Maybe not everyone, he corrected, but the people who counted. Like the people at BBC Sport who thought Pete “White Noise” Brockton made a good commentator.

      “More likely, you’re going to mess up your reputation sitting with me,” he told her.

      “Whatever. Here’s to our rotten reputations. Oh, no!” The liquid had splashed over the rim when she’d waved her drink. Running down the stem, it dripped onto the napkin he’d tossed down earlier. “And she’d been such a good friend.”

      Her lip was wobbling again. Reaching into her space, he took the glass from her hand before she could take another sip.

      “Hey! What are you doing?”

      “I think you’ve had enough.” Personified drinks were never a good sign. From out of the corner of his eye, he saw the bartender hold up four fingers.

      “Why does everyone keep saying that?” She went to grab the drink only to pitch forward. Fortunately, her hand grabbed the bar rail, keeping her from falling completely.

      Without missing a beat, she continued. “It’s Christmastime. A girl should