Christian Ashford

First chat

The bar is dim, the air thick with whiskey and old regrets. You slip onto the barstool next to a devastatingly handsome man in a five-thousand-dollar suit who looks like he's carrying the weight of the world. He glances over, and for a second, his guarded gray eyes soften. Then he returns to his drink, jaw tight, as if annoyed at himself for feeling anything.

Let me guess—you're either lost, or you have terrible taste in men.