I have never liked sports bars.

The sweaty men sitting on their grimy stools at the bar while they scream at televisions mounted to the walls, drinking beer by the gallon, had never appealed to me. In college, when my roommate had insisted that the sports bar just off campus was the best place to meet guys, I ended up being groped and jeered at by workmen who had just trudged off a building site in ridiculous need of a shower.

Therefore, the fact that I'm waiting in a grungy booth with disgustingly stained upholstery for a guy I haven't seen in years is ridiculous.

When I had mentioned to Demi that I was sick of chasing around after guys who had no interest in settling down – which is exactly what I want from a relationship at this point in my life – she said she knew exactly the person who could help me.

I haven't seen her brother-in-law, Nick, since her wedding to Joe, but the vague recollections I have of him are not overly impressive. As she urged me to remember him, I could only picture a skinny boy with uncontrollably curly hair. As for his face? I hardly remember a thing. He's just this faceless stick in my mind, and it's driving me crazy, because I remember everything.

I drum my fingers on the table impatiently, then quickly retract my hand when I remember that the table probably hasn't been wiped down in days. The commentary of a baseball game blares as every other person in the bar, including the bartender, watches the game intently.

He's late. I hate people who are late.

The door of the bar swings open, and a man in his twenties walks in. He looks around, spots me, and saunters over without a care in the world.

"You must be Miley," he says. He sticks out his hand and flashes me a grin. "I'm Nick."

I look up at him. The faceless blur in my head comes into focus as I think about the scrawny kid at Demi's wedding. He has definitely grown up in the last few years. The small bush of curls that was once the only thing I remembered him by is gone, replaced by a much shorter style, though a hint of his curls is growing back. He has filled out – his muscles are a lot more defined than I recall. He clearly spent the last few years in the gym. Then I reach his eyes, and I take them in. After all, aren't eyes the main thing we remember people by? Apparently not. They are a deep shade of chocolate brown, glinting with an essence of cockiness and impertinence. Surely I would have remembered that distinct shade of brown.

"You're late," I snap.

He smirks and slides into the booth in the seat opposite me. "Sorry about that. Some chicks just don't know when to give up on a guy that isn't interested." He motions at the bartender and within moments, there is a bottle of beer in front of him.

"A regular?" I ask.

"Something like that."

I fold my hands in my lap, making a cautious effort not to touch the table. "Demi tells me that you can help me with my … dilemma."

"And she tells me that you are another one of her desperate friends who is pushing thirty and can't find a guy that can stand to spend the rest of his life with you," he responds, taking a large gulp from his bottle of beer.

I gasp. "I am not desperate!"

"Then, darlin', what are you doing sitting here with me?"

I narrow my eyes at him. "I'm not paying you to be a sarcastic ass, thank you."

"Wow, Little Miss Uptight has a feisty side. I like it." Nick laughs and leans back in his seat. "So, why don't you tell me what your problem is? Because let me tell you, you aren't exactly hard on the eyes."

"It isn't a problem, per se."

"Just cut the crap and tell me why no man is willing to spend the rest of his life with you."

I blinked at his abrupt and rather harsh comment. "Well, thank you for that insightful revelation," I snarled. "If you must know, I'm very committed to my job, and it's hard to find someone who understands the demanding schedule of a lawyer. You, I'm sure, have no idea what it's like to have a real job, but for those of us who do and actually enjoy their occupation, it's hard to find somebody who doesn't mind when I choose my job over some idiotic dinner date."

He observes me carefully across the table and then slowly nods. "I totally get it now."

"Get what?"

"Why you're single." Nick grins and puts his beer bottle down on the table. "You see, Miley, for any man to fall in love with you, I'm pretty sure that you need to pull that stick out of your ass. Don't worry, it isn't your fault – I'm pretty sure it comes with the territory when you get a law degree – but for any man to actually want to spend the rest of his life with you, he needs to not have the need to strangle you every time you open your mouth."

I gasp, shocked. "You rude, obnoxious little –"

"I'm honest, honey. If you don't like that, you know where the door is." He sighs and looks me over once more. "I'm going to have a lot of work to do with you, aren't I? And I can already tell that you're going to be a difficult one. If I didn't owe Demi a favor, I definitely would not be spending my Friday night with a client."

"Okay, thank you. I don't need a commentary of your inner thoughts."

He grins, flashing those dimples that would have knocked me into next week had he not already revealed what an ass he was. "You really do have a feisty streak, don't you? As difficult as you're going to be, I have a feeling that I'm really going to enjoy this."

I roll my eyes at him and run my finger along the stem of my wine glass. "So where do we go from here? You know what I want."

"Actually, I'm not quite sure what you want."

"I told you – someone who understands that sometimes my job is going to have to come first."

He smiles again and shakes his head. "I have had dozens of clients just like you, and they all want the same thing. They're so attached to their jobs that they aren't willing to sacrifice a little time at the office for a nice guy. Your options here are finding some nauseatingly dull man who puts you to sleep every time he opens his mouth or a man who is as attached to his job as you are to yours. If you're so sure about what you want, I'm going to need a little more detail."

"I don't know in detail," I say.

"Well then, we're just going to have to make do with whatever I decide, aren't we?" Nick takes a drink from his beer bottle again and points across the room at a beefy looking man in paint-stained jeans and a wife-beater. "I'm assuming that we're aiming to stay away from that sort of guy?"

"I'm not in the mood for your jokes and games. Are you going to be serious about this or are you just going to turn it all into some big laugh?"

His face softens for a moment, and for just an ounce of a second, I can see the glimmer of a man who may actually have a desire for something more than money and meaningless sex. Then that obnoxious smirk returns as he leans back in his seat and keeps his eyes glued to me, and the moment dissipates like a puff of smoke.

"Well, it's pretty hard to not make a few jokes here and there," he teases.

"If you weren't Demi's brother-in-law, I swear –"

"What? You'd take me to court? For what, exactly?" He laughs and leans across the table to look me straight in the eye. "Let me get this straight, sweetheart. Right now, I'm your only chance of getting married before you hit thirty. Let's face it – your biological clock is ticking, just like every other woman out there. There are about a million other girls in this city who would willingly drop everything and become some perfect little homemaker for some high-powered career man. You're going to have to do a hell of a lot to compete with those girls, so why don't you just have a little bit of sense and listen to me? Because I sure know a hell of a lot more about this thing than you do."

"Don't call me sweetheart."

He bellows with laughter this time and slumps back in his seat. "Out of all that, the only thing you can tell me is to not call you sweetheart? Well, Demi was damn right when she said you're stubborn."

"Demi said that?"

"Among other things," Nick says softly.

"Like what?"

"Ah, now that would be breaking my darling sister-in-law's trust, wouldn't it?" He smiles and puts his empty bottle down on the table, pushing it back and forth across the polished would between his hands. "She was right when she said that you have the potential to be every man's dream, that's for sure."

"Potential?"

"Well, if you want to be every man's dream, you're going to have to do some bits and pieces. Like that pantsuit. Pantsuits were never in fashion. In fact, they're a crime against humanity, so why don't you burn that piece of crap when you go home?"

"A pantsuit is practical!"

"For what? The convent? That thing is like some desperate cock-block for women whose friends have crawled into bar corners with strangers and can no longer protect them the night before they join the nunnery."

"And what would you suggest I wear to work, huh? Hot pants and a crop top?"

He grins cheekily. "That would be ideal, yes. Damn, can you imagine the courtrooms if you came into work dressed like that?" He chuckled, then stopped at my frowning expression. "I'm kidding, Miley. Chill." He sighs and folds his arms across his chest. "Okay, step two after the elimination of the pantsuit. A smile does the world of good, you know."

"Smiling is overrated."

"Apparently smiling and the pantsuit are in the same boat here."

That earns the faintest hint of a laugh from me. He's such an ass that a hint is all he deserves, even if he does have a sense of humor. Guys like that don't need their egos inflated any more than they already are.

Nick rises to his feet and grabs a paper napkin from the holder against the wall. He pulls a pen from his pocket and scribbles a phone number down. "This is my cell. I assume that Demi hasn't given you my number yet. I'll get yours from her and call you about our next meeting."

"And what exactly will this meeting entail?"

He grins and winks down at me. "How about we keep that a surprise? Let's just say that it's the beginning of step three."

"And step three is?"

"All part of the surprise, my dear." He slides the napkin across the table to me and straightens up. "I'll be in touch," he promises. He puts a twenty-dollar bill down on the table to cover our drinks and then backs away from the table.

I watch him as he walks from the bar, weaving through the crowd of shouting man gathered in front of the television screens. The large group seems to part especially for him. Perhaps it's that light in his eyes when he smiles, or maybe those dimples have the same effect on hard-working laborers as they do on women. All I know is that Nick has an impact on everyone in that bar that's so different to what I remember from the wedding.

At the wedding, I hardly even spoke to him. As best man and maid of honor, we probably should have spent a lot of time together, but we didn't. He was the brother of the groom and I was the best friend of the bride. Since Joe didn't have a huge part in the planning of the wedding, neither did his brother. There was never any need for me to remember him.

But those eyes and those dimples … Even on a kid who was making his way through the motions of college, those were some pretty memorable features. The only question left to ask was why on earth there was such a blank spot in my mind when it came to Nick.