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I should have known something was off about Juniper.

For starters, her name was Juniper.

That should have been my first red flag.

But when her photo popped up on Tinder, my thumb hesitated over her face.

Yeah, it was a bathroom selfie, and yeah, her lips were pursed in an annoying semi-duck face.

But man, she was hot. My thumb slid across my phone's screen as I

swiped right. Our first date was at a bar near her work, somewhere in Midtown. She wanted to meet up

on a Tuesday. I'd have preferred a weekend night, but whatever. I'm flexible, when the catch is hot enough. It was some

crappy place with a sports reference for a name, Foreplay or something. The place was filled with

Frat Boy, now financial advisors, taking advantage of the happy hour specials, and attractive

bartenders and tight tank tops. I grabbed us a table in the

back, behind the giant jenga and pool tables. My phone buzzed with a text message. Running late,

be there in ten. I rolled my eyes and took a sip of my cheap logger. She better be worth it. My beer caught in my throat as she walked past the bar into the main seating area. She scanned the room for me, her long blonde hair over one shoulder. She wore a fitted button-up shirt, unbuttoned at the top, and a pencil skirt.

Her long, thin legs ended up in a pair of pink pumps, a little bit of spice in an otherwise

fairly conservative business outfit. I felt my groin warm as my eyes lingered on her calves.

Her face lit up with recognition when she caught my gaze.

...