Rafe opens his mouth to object, but I hold up my hand to stop him. Flashing the bartender a smile as he finally makes his way over, I tell him, “We’re ready for the bill.”
The bartender nods and goes over the computer to print one up for us.
“Look, I won’t argue that’s my type. But I’ve had a good time with you this evening, and like you pointed out, I’m only in town for the night.” Shrugging, he says, “What’s the harm in mixing it up a little? Something different can be refreshing.”
A helpless grin claims my lips at his wording. I grab what is essentially just a strawberry slushie and take another sip. “Yeah, well, I’m not a refreshment,” I inform him.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he says, easily.
“I know you didn’t,” I assure him. “It’s nothing personal. I am having fun. I’ve just spent the last four years fitting myself into someone else’s idea of what I should be, and now I’ll be damned if I’m changing my plans because the man I brought with me feels like it. We’re going to the comedy show, we’re going to laugh, and it’s going to be great.”
I wait to see how Mr. Dominant will respond to this, but he seems very good at reading the room and going with it. Instead of showing even the faintest sign of irritation, instead of arguing more when he’s clearly not going to sway me, he lightens up.
“I’m going to laugh if the comedian sucks,” Rafe states, raising an eyebrow at me. “I’m gonna laugh all night long.”
“I’ll still laugh,” I shoot back stubbornly. “Points for trying, buddy. Even bad comedians gotta eat, right?”
The bartender slides a clear glass with the receipt inside across the bar top. I dig in my purse for my credit card, but just as I’m about to place it, Rafe swipes the cup and slides some cash inside.
“Hey!”
“Nope,” he states, offering a polite nod-and-smile at the bartender as he takes it.
“I was supposed to pay,” I inform him.
“You bought the tickets. I bought the drinks. Stop trying to oppress me.”
A little laugh of surprise shoots out of me, but I guess I can’t argue with that. Rolling my eyes, still smiling, I slide off the stool. “Mateo was supposed to pay for our whole night out. He wouldn’t have noticed or cared anyway, but God, can’t you let a woman be petty?”
Amusement dances in his eyes. He grabs my coat off the hook before I can and opens it to help me into it. I roll my eyes, but he clearly expects me to object, so I don’t. “Thank you,” I tell him with exaggerated agreeableness. “Putting my own coat on is so difficult.”
“That’s what I figured,” he tosses back.
My smile slips as his hand drops to the small of my back, then moves to my hip as he escorts me through the crowd. My stomach either objects to or appreciates the contact, dropping like a rock. I’m a little more breathless than I expected, but it’s been a while since anyone’s offered me affection just because they felt like it.
I come to a dead stop as I hear a familiar piano sequence coming through the speakers. Good ol’ Blue Eyes starts crooning The Best is Yet to Come and I can’t stop the grin from spreading across my face.
I think Rafe misinterprets my halting for alarm. His gaze sweeps the room and he leans in to murmur, “Something wrong?”
Turning to look up at him, I ask, “Do you dance?”
He clearly wasn’t expecting that question. Also, there’s no dance floor.
“This is my favorite song,” I inform him, pointing upward.
Now he looks around the crowded bar, seeing as I do that there’s nowhere to dance, even if we wanted to. It’s a skinny building to begin with, people crammed at tables with no space between them, barely enough room in the aisle to squeeze past the tables and the people seated at the bar. There’s definitely nowhere to dance. He glances down at me, his brown eyes inexplicably making my stomach feel weird again. Maybe it’s the baby. It doesn’t feel like the baby, but I decide it is and look away.
A couple seconds pass, then he puts a little pressure on my lower back, guiding me forward. At first I think he sees some free pocket I may not have noticed, but he leads me to the door. We’re leaving. A faint trace of disappointment trickles through me, but I shake it off. I’m being silly. Pregnant Meg is the worst. There’s nowhere to dance, and he probably doesn’t want to dance with me and my baby bump anyway.
Get it together, Meg.
Dragging things back on track, I announce, “The reviews for this comedy show are brutal. I hope you’re a fan of ‘so bad it’s good,’ because apparently that happens a lot here. Like, I guess they’re all high and they drink before the show, and I don’t know if you’ve ever been drunk and high, I’m assuming yes, but it makes things a lot funnier than they should be. And I guess the one guy is super offensive in all of the ways—”