Shit.
Calm down, Clove.
The bartender greets Zayne by name, then catches sight of me and rests an elbow on the bar, eyes darting up and down my length with a smile of approval. “And who is this beautiful young lady?”
“Clove, this is Nick. Ignore anything he tells you,” Zayne advises with a smirk at his friend.
In response, Nick slides two glasses across the table. “You’re just in time. I’m trying out a new recipe.” But I notice his eyes keep darting back to me. I wonder if that’s because he’s surprised to see me here with Zayne. Then I wonder why. Does Zayne usually bring a different girl every time he comes here? Or does he not usually have a girl in tow at all? It’s hard to tell.
The guys banter for a minute while I sample the drink. My eyes widen. It’s delicious—fruity but not too sweet, and a little smoky on the tail end.
“I call it a Southern Fire-Starter,” Nick says, noticing my expression. “Bourbon-based.”
“It’s delicious.”
“She’s got good taste,” Nick points out to Zayne with a wink. “Well, you know, except for showing up here with you.”
I grin over the rim of the glass at Zayne while he insults Nick back.
“Seriously though, how did he talk you into going out in public with him?” Nick adds when Zayne pauses to knock back a taste of his own drink.
“Funny story…” I start, but Zayne finishes his drink with a shake of his head and wraps an arm around my shoulders.
“How about not giving her the third degree right off the bat, huh, dude?” He’s grinning, but something about their postures tells me there’s more going on here than meets the eye. They’re both joking, but Nick is asking Zayne something else, I think. Something that I can’t quite put my finger on.
I shrug it off when Zayne leads me to a back table. I don’t need to figure out his friends. I’m not here for them, after all.
We take a seat in a far corner, a cozy little spot that I could definitely get used to. It’s the kind of local dive that I love best—not too pricey, not too crowded. Just the right number of locals who know each other’s names, and a bartender who remembers their favorite drinks.
We sip on Nick’s specialty cocktail and talk a little bit about the neighborhood. Zayne grew up here, apparently, and before long, he’s regaling me with stories of what this place used to be like when he was young. He’s only a couple years older than me, I learn, which surprises me. He has one of those faces that could pass for almost any age between 28 and 40.
Still, for only being 31, he knows a lot about the history of this spot. This pub has apparently been here all along, one of the only institutions that survived the real estate crash and then the following real estate explosion a few years later when rent prices started to recover. There used to be a big park next door, but about fifteen years ago they razed it to put up another apartment complex, and then in turn razed that to build a bigger, fancier complex.
It’s intriguing hearing about all this history. I never really thought about the neighborhood, about what it used to be like before I moved in. Now it’s ritzy as hell, with tons of boutique shops and fancy restaurants on every corner. I don’t mind that at all, but it’s strange to think of what it must have been like for Zayne. To grow up here, to watch his neighborhood go through so many transformations.
I tell him about my old neighborhood where I grew up, out in west Ohio. It was a tiny town, barely a blip on any map. Even locals had hardly heard of it. I had 50 people in my high school graduating class. He laughs at that. I describe our weekend pastimes—yes, cow-tipping was a real thing. No, we never actually managed to push a cow over. Though one time my brother did get kicked in the shin while trying.
Before I realize it, we’re on our third round of drinks, the first two compliments of the house, and I’m feeling them. Not to mention, with every round, we’ve inched closer together, going from sitting across from one another at this table to side-by-side, to now, with Zayne’s leg and side pressed against mine. I can feel his hips as he shifts in his chair, leans closer against me. A spark flies through me when he drapes his arm over the back of my chair, letting his fingertips trail along my bicep.
“So,” he murmurs, against my ear when we’re halfway through our third drinks. “Earlier…”
“Mmhmm?” I tilt toward him, distracted by the faint graze of his lips against my earlobe, and the continued tingles along my arm as he traces his fingers lazily over my skin.