What He Wants by Hannah Ford Page A

heinous form of
torture.   Especially one where I
didn’t know anyone but the bride, who was a fellow law student at Middleton University.  
    I thought coming to this party might help
me meet some of my classmates – Cora seemed to know everyone in our class
-- but all it was doing so far was reminding me how much I hated to
socialize.   Oh, and making me
realize that Cora, even though she was engaged, apparently subscribed to the
theory that whatever happened at bachelorette parties stayed at bachelorette
parties, because she’d been throwing herself at different men all night. Right
now she was out on the dance floor, grinding on a man wearing plaid dress
pants.
    I took a sip of my drink – ginger
ale with cranberry, my usual, because it made me seem like I was drinking
alcohol even when I wasn’t– and tried to look busy.   The last thing I wanted was one of the
party-goers to come over and try to drag me into their dance frenzy.
    And then, suddenly, he was by my side.
    No, not the sexy stranger I’d been trying
to avoid staring at, but another man.
    This one was paunchy, slightly balding,
and had hairy knuckles.  
    “Let me buy you a drink, sweetheart,” he
slurred.   I sighed.   Men like him always tried to hit on
me.   They thought that since I was
considered a “bigger girl” they’d have more of a chance with me.   What they didn’t understand was that
just because I was carrying a few extra pounds didn’t mean I was
desperate.  
    “No, that’s okay,” I said politely.   I indicated the drink I was
holding.   “I already have one.”
    He frowned, like he was trying to work
out a particularly hard math problem.   Then, brightening, he reached out, took the drink from my hand and poured it onto the floor.   “There!” he exclaimed, proud of
himself.   “Now you need another
one.”
    I was so shocked, I wasn’t sure what the
appropriate response was. The man leaned in and slung his arm over my
shoulder.   “Come on,” he said, his
breath smelling of alcohol and garlic.   “Lemme buy you a drink.”
    “Leave her alone,” someone growled, and
before I knew what was happening, the sexy man from across the bar had grabbed
the back of the pudgy man’s shirt and had tossed him to the side.
    “Hey!” the man protested.   He stumbled for a few steps, almost
hitting the table behind us, then readjusted his suit coat.   “What the hell do you think you’re
doing?”
    But my knight in shining armor gave him a
menacing look, and after thinking about it, the man slunk away, back to his to
group of friends.
    “You okay?” the gorgeous stranger
asked.   Up close, he was just as
sexy, although less polished than I’d first thought.   He wore an expensive suit, but his white shirt was
unbuttoned at the top and rumpled, like he’d spent the day getting into fights
instead of behind a desk.
    “I’m fine.”   My throat had gone dry.   This man was big – tall, at least six foot three, with
broad shoulders and huge hands.   I
was five ten and carried more weight than I probably should have – most
men made me feel big and oafish around them, but this man made me feel
tiny.   I imagined him grabbing me
with those big hands of his, and heat flooded my core.
    “What were you drinking?”
    I was way too embarrassed to tell him I
was drinking cranberry and ginger ale.   “Um, vodka and cranberry.”
    He frowned, like this was
unacceptable.   He reached his hand
up and motioned for the cocktail waitress.   His sleeve slid back for a moment, revealing a beautiful
silver watch and a strong-looking forearm.   Not that I was surprised –Cora had chosen this bar
precisely because it was supposed to be height of sophistication.   But she must have gotten something
wrong, because even though the clientele did seem sophisticated – mostly young professionals, out after work on a
Friday night –a lot of them were already sloppy drunk.   Not this man, though – this man
was