everyone watches, cheering him on as he pours it over a bed of ice. It sizzles and a cloud of smoke rises from the cup. I’m impressed.
As we walk up to the bar, I look at Nora and watch her expression change from curiosity to complete skepticism.
“Barkeep—that’s the lamest trick in the book!” she yells, loud enough for the bartender to hear her over the music.
I look from side to side, taking in all the faces turned to us now. Nora doesn’t turn away; she stares straight into the man’s eyes when he turns toward her.
“Ugh. I should have known that was you.” His expression is pure annoyance, but it’s all pretend. The way he doesn’t stop looking at her, I know that he knows her quite well, enough to tease her.
Briefly and irrationally, I wonder if they have dated . . . or are maybe dating now.
She smiles and leans against the bar. “Hey, Mitch.”
She’s using the bar top as a shelf for her chest. And he notices. He clearly likes it. I watch him stare, unashamed, at her open cleavage.
Her shirt is just so low, the neck cut into a V shape is very distracting, and in combination with those damn jeans, I’ve never seen someone look so good in such a simple outfit.
“Don’t scowl, it doesn’t suit you,” Tessa chimes in my ear.
Am I that transparent? I straighten out my face and try to rationalize this. I’ve never been a jealous person. Dakota would have driven a jealous person totally insane with her flirty personality and the pull she seemed to have on every guy at our high school. She did a good job at never making me feel like I had to fight for her—she was always mine and I didn’t feel the need to be immaturely jealous or dramatic over it.
“When did you get here?” I ask, distracting myself from staring at Nora.
“Just now; work was weirdly dead.” She sighs, shrugging her shoulders like she would rather be anywhere but here. She’s in her work uniform, black pants and a button-down white shirt; her apron strings are hanging out of her purse. What a trouper and a friend.
Horny bartender prances over, his smile wide and his hair perfectly coiffed. I’m sure he’s nice. He has the shoulders of a linebacker and the build of Adam Levine. He’s a tiny thing, yet muscular. It’s an odd combination, but I can see the appeal.
Nora stretches over to hug him and he leans over into her arms. The bar is the only thing keeping the two of them from full body contact. I look away and pretend to scan the scene, but out of the corner of my eye, I can see that they are still hugging.
I look around the place. All of the names of the drinks are written in chalk on a big blackboard behind the bar, and when I hear Nora order two of them, I look them up. “Letters to Your Lover” contains gin, raspberry, and something that I can’t read. The “Knot-So-Manhattan” is a blend of whiskey, vermouth, and bitters. A little hand-drawn knot is doodled next to the handwritten ingredient list.
I continue to read through the quirky list of crafted cocktails, assuming that since Nora is about twenty-five and definitely knows the bartender, we won’t have any problem getting served alcohol. I don’t drink often—a six-pack would last me a month probably—but I would like a drink tonight. Tessa and I have gone out a few times, and when we were offered a cocktail menu, we often managed to get drinks without being carded. Yeah, we walk on the wild side every once in a while.
Tessa looks out of place as she tugs on the bottom of her baggy white shirt. “I’m going to the bathroom,” she says, and I nod and stand awkwardly in place, waiting for Nora to remember that I’m here.
I stare at Mitch and he keeps getting more and more attractive . . . and more and more obnoxious. Shouldn’t he be making drinks or something? Now it’s just me, Nora, and one of the most attractive men ever created.
These types of men are brought into this world to make guys like me feel inadequate. His teeth are so straight, and whiter than a new pair of sneakers. I look at them again, tilting on the heels of my boots and trying not to stare. Maybe I should have taken a bathroom break with Tessa—you know, like girls do?
Before I can walk away, Nora breaks off from Mr. Hot—who’s too hot to work at a small bar—and links her arm through mine. Her hands are cold when she touches my skin. I reach for them, take them in mine, and rub them together. They warm up almost immediately, along with my cheeks, which are burning at my forwardness. Thank God it’s dark in here.
She looks up at me, her eyes curious. She looks down at our hands, at my gesture, and smiles.