I laugh into my martini glass. “Of course she was. First time I met her, she gave me a peach wine cooler and sat me down to relive her glory days as a strip club manager.”
“No shit?”
“I shit you not.”
“Just checking in,” our cocktail waitress appears out of nowhere. “Can I get you anything?”
We order another round—plus shots—and settle in, our bodies warm and pliable and melting against the impossibly soft velvet seating we share.
She returns within minutes, placing our drinks in a perfect row, and Talon hands me one of the shot glasses.
“To our date,” he says, making a toast. “Hopefully the first of many more to come.”
Our glasses clink and I toss mine back. It burns like fire on the way down and I wipe a rogue drop from the corner of my mouth with my pinky. Talon watches my every move, and now that I think about it, he’s hardly taken his eyes off me all night.
It’s funny … when I look at him tonight, I don’t see the arrogant quarterback, the man obsessed with screwing me. I don’t see the cruel Adonis with the corded steel muscles and permanent scowl.
I see a man: a devilishly attractive man who knows how to craft a night I’m never going to forget as long as I live.
The DJ spins a new track, this one slower, more repetitious, undeniably sensual. Without thinking, I find myself staring at his mouth. My throat turns dry as I try to swallow the anxious lump that forms. The flurry of butterflies in my middle are quickly overpowered by the ricochet of my heart hammering against my ribcage.
Leaning back, Talon settles into the sofa we share before casually wrapping his arm around the backrest. His body heat radiates onto me and his citrus-woods cologne fills my lungs. My tongue zings with the anticipation of his cinnamon taste.
He’s going to kiss me again.
I feel it.
The buildup …
The anticipation …
Drawing in a careful breath, I pace my whirring thoughts and try to relax, try to place myself in this moment where the outside world doesn’t exist, where yesterday is irrelevant and tomorrow is unwritten.
The song changes again—which marks four minutes of Talon not making a move on me. I glance over at him and he shoots a half-smirk that sets my nerve endings ablaze. With as subtle an effort as I can muster, I bite my lower lip, thinking maybe a hint might move things along … but four minutes pass and a new song plays.
Talon clears his throat, stretching his arms behind his head and getting re-situated.
“I was thinking,” he begins to say, “do you—”
He doesn’t get a chance to finish.
Icy cold liquid spills down the side of my head, dripping down my shoulder, and careening down the front of my white sweater. In the ambient lighting, I can’t tell if it’s purple, red, or blue, but it’s definitely not water.
“Oh my God!” A woman shrieks behind me. “I’m so sorry!”
Talon is quick to rise and even quicker to my side. “Jesus, Irie. You okay?”
“Yeah,” I say, still in shock. He shoots the woman a look, his lips ready as if he’s about to say something, and then our server appears with a handful of cloth napkins.
“These heels,” the woman says, pointing at her feet. “Still breaking them in. Clumsy me.”
I turn to take a look at her for myself, only to find the coyest of smiles on her mouth.
She did this on purpose.
“Bullshit, Alicia,” Talon says, confirming my suspicions. “The fuck is wrong with you?”
The Alicia chick scoffs before redirecting her attention to me. “I said it was an accident.”
Talon snatches one of the napkins from the server, dabbing it against the sticky sweet mess that has become my ruined curls.
“It’s okay,” I say, taking it from him. “I’ve got it.”
“I’d be happy to get some new drinks going for you all,” the server says, but Talon doesn’t hear it. The music is pumping and he’s going off on the girl who spilled the drink.
“I’m going to the ladies’ room,” I say, but no one hears me. People stare as I make my way to the back of the lounge, but I do my best to ignore them. Once inside the rest room, I take a look at my reflection and the splash of cosmo-pink liquor across my white top. I run my fingers through my tangled hair, which is already beginning to reek of dried, sugary alcohol, and try to comb it into place but with little success, so I grab a hair tie from my bag and wrap it into a low, messy bun.
It’s not perfect, but it just might salvage the night—and I want it to.
I’ve been enjoying myself and I’m not quite ready to go home yet.
I return to our reserved sofa a few minutes later.