Shit, I was still wearing my wedding and engagement rings. Quickly, I justified my little oversight. I wasn’t setting out to fool anyone. I’d make...sure any man who hooked up with me knew what he was getting–an angry housewife. And speaking of hooking up, my presence had sparked a decided upturn of interest on the part of the male patrons. I took another sip of wine, watched the room in the mirror behind the bar, and realized that I was the only unattached female in the place. In quick. Hunt Mansion - built in 1949 by Charles Richard Hunt for his family. He had made billions in mining and oil and rather grotesquely flourished during the 2nd World War due to his numerous factories and engineering services. He had died in 1988 at the grand old age of 97. In his later years he had given away much of his fortune to charity and projects around the country. His last great gesture had been to give away - yes - give away Hunt Mansion to the Military as a half-way house to allow PTSD. I kept the last scoop for myself.When she finally stood up and went to sit on the other chair, the man next to us stood up too and approached our side.“Hi, great job!” he said in broken English, “my name is Paul, this is my girlfriend Sophie.” He was in his late thirties, stocky and moderately hairy. The girl seemed to be a few years younger with an hourglass body and long dark hair. Neither one of them had tan lines.We shook hands over the one foot space separating our balconies.“Nice to meet. Obviously it would turn out to be either completely false or she'd be nothing like her pictures, or of course, she'd actually turn out to be a man. It's not as if I had even spoken to her about meeting up. The more I thought about it, the more it seemed to be a middle aged folly. On the positive side though, there were plenty of good looking girls coming in, some tall, some slim, some tall and slim but none were as elegant as the girl in the photo.Thinking I'd give it until the bar got busy.