The Urban Dictionary defines a "soft launch" as "a photo preview of a talking stage before it becomes an official relationship on social media, i.e., taking photos of their dinner plate and their hands, half their face or their shoes as to allude there's someone special in your life."

Chapter two.

I'm nothing if not patient.

In fact, I'm very accommodating and polite to a fault. Usually. I give chances and explain and respect the trial and error ratio. That is what my colleagues think of me. Every new trainee at the newsroom floats by my desk for a day, maybe two. Because Isabella will be thorough. She's kind. She gets that you don't know everything and that learning bits and pieces of that everything, of what seems so obvious and easy for the rest of us might take some time.

True. I'm good with fresh blood at the office.

Out in the world I'm not so forgiving. I bite heads off and I write about it, about the gore and the tears and grade the level of douchebag the guy attains.

People love it. We as a species have been known to enjoy another person's drama. Romantic drama makes it to the top three topics, easily.

So as I sit here, bored off my ass, nursing an Aperol Spritz, biting the orange slice that decorated the frosted glass, I'm disgusted. Mostly by Rosalie's claims. But also, because now I have nothing to write about. I'll have to actually dig another Tinder conversation out of my archives. I don't like doing that because it's not as intense as the real thing. It's not as good, or juicy.

The bar isn't even near me. I drove half an hour to this place. It smells like motorcycles and leather, of wood and flower cleaner, weirdly mixing with the earthy tones of gasoline and oil and the perfume of the odd gal in here, dressed in vintage leather. God it makes her ass look good. Maybe I should invest in a pair of those pants.

The cedar panels on the wall make the place look homey and lived-in, like this bar has been here since the dawn of ages. In fact, it reminds me of a pub you'd find in the Middle Ages. Where horses were left out front and whores upstairs.

I snort at my own humor.

"Glad you're enjoying yourself. Hard to tell with that sour look on your face."

I'm pulled out of my internal monologue that feeds my self-pity.

I scoff at the tree of a man in front me.

"Excuse me?" My brows arch. When agitated, I take offense to everything and anyone who utters one wrong syllable. This unmannered buffoon had definitely uttered the wrong syllable. Two entire sentences, even.

"Fancy drink, typing furiously, pout…" he starts again, balancing a large, round tray full of empty drinks onto his left hand as if it's nothing. Ass. "I'm guessing you've been stood up."

He keeps earning points that make the 'fuck pff' jar overflow.

I take a deep breath, placing my phone on the tabletop.

"Firstly," I begin, eyes narrowing. "I'm not pouting." He dares to smile now, unveiling pearly whites. "Secondly, this Aperol isn't even well-made. I'm willing to bet the amount of those gentlemen's tabs on the fact that this just came from the bottle and wasn't even whipped-up here." I eye the foursome by the window overlooking the fucking forest. They're drinking heavily, laughing and actually having a fun Friday night. "And thirdly…you have no business as to why I'm here."

Yeah, the gloves are off.

"Damn… you sure know how to talk. Do you also know how to shut up and not scare my patrons away?"

"What? As if your attitude isn't already doing that?" I throw back.

"No one here has a problem with me here, kid. Are you sure this is the right place for you to start shit?"

"What's your problem, anyway?"

"You being on your first drink, forty minutes after ordering it. Your face, looking like you might start a fucking war, and the violent attitude in general." A lock of auburn hair falls over his forehead.

I'm baffled. Speechless. This bravado and truth and dare this fellow has.

So I laugh, and roll my eyes.

"Isabella, and judging from your trash talk, you might be twelve."

I hold out my hand, waiting.

I get a chuckle in return, just when I notice those dimples and hauntingly green eyes.

"Come sit at the bar. I'll make you a real drink, kid."

He turns with the tray balancing with the gusto of a server in a Michelin-rated restaurant, wearing worn Levi's that make me wonder how much on earth he paid for those since they make his ass look that phenomenal.