Actually, fucked up is more like it. Jack Manning leaned against the bar, sipping his drink and indulging in his own private pity party. Friday night and all around him in Eli’s, their favourite bar, his friends were celebrating his fortieth birthday. A death knell that had crept up on his rapidly dissipating youth. Not that he didn’t appreciate the cheer and good wishes—it just sucked that everyone was coupled-up except him. “Still looking for the perfect woman?” A hand clapped his shoulder and he turned to see his closest friend, Mike Moreland, grinning at him. Jack just shrugged and took another slug of bourbon. “She won’t find you if you stand there glaring at everyone,” a musical voice said. Carly, Mike’s wife. Great. They were double-teaming him. “It’s my birthday,” he told them with an edge to his voice. “I can glare if I want to.” Carly stood on tiptoe and whispered in his ear, “Loosen up a little, will you? Lose the jacket and tie. Forty could be just the beginning for you.”
