No Strings. Cara Lockwood

buy her a drink.

      Of course, Sarah would say that casual sex proved her independence from men. Emma shook her head. Feminism was complicated. She glanced once more at her closet, grabbed a pair of jeans and one of her favorite off-the-shoulder sweaters and paired it with a pair of ankle boots, no heel. Emma stood five-seven, so she already knew she was better off assuming Mr. Happy Fun Time was shorter than her. Emma didn’t care, but she knew men did. It had been her experience that men lied about their height. He said he was five-eleven, but that could mean anything.

      She pulled on her outfit, dusted on some light makeup and then checked out her reflection in the mirror. Even she could tell she looked tense, even when she plastered on a fake smile and tossed her blond hair over one shoulder.

      This is just research, she told herself. She’d take mental notes and then have a hell of a story to pitch to her editor tomorrow.

      She nodded at herself in the mirror, meeting her clear blue-eyed gaze. “One drink,” she told herself. “An hour tops.”

      * * *

      Emma sat at the upscale bar in the Ritz-Carlton bathed in the fading sunlight of early evening beaming down through the canopy of windows encasing the tastefully decorated lounge. She felt self-conscious as she nursed the Hendrick’s and tonic she’d ordered from the bartender and kept checking her phone. Where was Mr. Happy Fun Time? He was seven minutes late was what he was. Emma glanced once more around the bar and saw three women chatting happily around a coffee table in the lounge, two men in business suits that were about ten years too old to be Mr. Happy Fun Time and both brunettes, and a tourist sitting in the corner in a leather armchair, wearing a St. Louis Cardinals jersey and looking more than a tad underdressed in the swanky bar with the white leather couches and the enclosed-window view of the impressive buildings in Chicago’s Loop. She gazed out the window, across the way at the copper-colored windows of the Time Life office building across the street, and wondered how long she ought to stay before abandoning this futile exercise altogether.

      Until I finish this drink, she promised herself, as she rattled the ice cubes around the cocktail glass and took another deep sip of the clear liquid. No date and no story. She couldn’t help but feel a pang of disappointment. Not because she wanted casual sex, but because she had started to like the idea of writing a story about her first Nost date. Skewering it relentlessly. She’d already thought of about 500 words she’d like to cram in it about women’s self-esteem and respecting yourself and a whole lecture she planned to give about the dangers of embracing casual sex. Feeling someone watching her, she glanced up and saw Cardinals Jersey staring. He had a matching baseball hat, too. Bold move wearing rival team paraphernalia in Chicago. She glanced away and focused on her phone. No messages, no Sorry, I’m running late, or anything. Figures. Not like one-night stand seekers cared about manners. Emma studied her drink. Three more sips, probably, and she’d leave.

      A new man came to sit in the lounge and she glanced up, hopeful it was Mr. Happy Fun Time, but realized instantly he wasn’t. He was much, much taller than five-eleven, probably at least six-two, and looked like a former wide receiver with broad shoulders, big hands and thick, muscled arms. He seemed to almost change the atmosphere of the lounge somehow, as everyone took notice of the dark-haired stranger who strode confidently to the bar. He slid into an empty stool at the end of her row and signaled the bartender. That was a man, she thought, his muscles evident even through the thick fabric of his shirt. He was a smidgen older than her. Early thirties, maybe? He had a smooth olive complexion but piercing, hazel eyes, not quite green, almost golden.

      Wow, but the man had a body. Trim waist, thick legs. He had to be a professional athlete, she thought. Did she know him? Blackhawks? Cubs? Something. Had to be. A body like that was made to be put to work. That was a body that could make a million-dollar contract, no doubt. Model? Maybe he was a model. Or an action star. Someone from the cast of Chicago Fire? Seemed like he had to be famous.

      He glanced up for a second, and sent her the smallest quirk of a smile, and that was when she realized she was staring at him like an idiot. She grabbed her phone and glanced down, wondering if he realized she’d been mentally undressing him. Emma felt a blush creep up the back of her neck. I must have sex on the brain, she thought. Look! Nost is already working.

      He was handsome, she admitted to herself as she tried not to openly stare. He had jet-black hair and wore a button-down shirt tucked into dark washed jeans. His arms looked muscled even through the fabric of his shirt, and his stomach was flat and hard, not a hint of unfit abs anywhere. He wore a watch on his wrist that even from a distance looked expensive, but no wedding ring, Emma noticed. The bartender served him a top-shelf rye on the rocks. The man took a sip as he pulled out his phone.

      This is why we have to use apps all the time, Emma lamented. We don’t see who’s right in front of us.

      It reminded Emma of the time her mother asked her why she didn’t just go out with her friends to meet someone. This was why, she inwardly groaned. All the best prospects kept their noses in their phones. Her own phone dinged with an incoming alert, and she grabbed it from the bar. Maybe it was Mr. Happy Fun Time.

      She glanced at her phone and saw a message from Nost all right, but it hadn’t come from Happy Fun Time. It had come from “Mr. X,” the same profile that had popped up earlier yesterday. Emma saw a timer already going on the profile signaling how much time she had to reply. Emma also noticed he had both a v and c next to his name: verified and clear, she remembered. Good. That was good.

      Just wanted to say hi, since you’re in my neighborhood.

      Neighborhood? Huh?

      How did you know that? She typed quickly, glancing around, almost as if she’d find someone staring at her.

      The maps feature? He offered.

      Emma literally smacked her own forehead. Of course. The “who’s closest to me on Nost right now” map. Or, as she liked to think about it, the I have to get laid right now and anybody will do, ANYBODY in a one square mile area feature. She glanced at the map and saw the markers and realized about a dozen Nost users were in the vicinity, hell, the very building she was in. But I’m in a hotel, so duh. She tried to figure out where Mr. X might be, but couldn’t quite make it out. There were so many little triangles, they all overlapped in one big blob.

      What does Mr. X stand for? she asked.

      X factor. Of course. Besides—Tall Dark and Handsome was already taken.

      She had to grin. Confidence was sexy. She took a look at his picture. Wow. Mr. X only just scratched the surface. Jet-black hair...amazing hazel eyes...smooth complexion with just the hint of stubble on his strong chin. He looked vaguely familiar. Why did he look so familiar?

      A new message popped up from Mr. X.

      Want to grab a drink? You’re right here. As in...literally...right here.

      She felt the heavy weight of a stranger’s gaze on her. She glanced up and saw Mr. Must Be Famous raising his glass in her direction. Mr. X...was him. A shock of surprise and delight ran through her. The gorgeous man next to her was on...Nost. Well, maybe Sarah had been right. Maybe this wasn’t such a crazy idea after all.

      He was even better looking than his profile picture, and his profile picture was darn near perfect. Mr. X flashed a bright white smile and Emma felt her stomach tighten. Would she join him for a drink? She was sorely tempted. Maybe she should. What did she have to lose?

      Emma grabbed her drink and caught movement from the corner of her eye. She hoped it was Mr. X, but instead, she turned to see the tourist in the Cardinals getup standing right in front of her, blocking her path. He sent her a goofy, bent-toothed smile and she grabbed her phone.

      “Hey.” The tourist plopped down on the stool next to hers. He had some nerve, especially since he was decked out head to toe in her least favorite team of all time. Her family had been die-hard Cubs fans for as long as she could remember. She was sure if she lived in St. Louis, she’d