Chapter 2
Gavin
The cantina smells like fruity spirits and freshly diced salsa.
I bypass the host stand and make my way to the bar. Most of the people sitting here tonight are regulars, and they all know I've got dibs on the end seat.
I always sit on the end, near the wall, not to avoid people or go unseen.
That’s actually the exact opposite of my intentions.
The end seat has the best vantage point, and the Mile High City has the most attractive women.
The bartender sets a beer in front of me before I even sit down.
“How did you know I wasn’t in an old-fashioned mood?” I ask.
“It’s the look in your eyes. You’re looking for fun. Whiskey dulls the senses,” he says over the music and the crowd.
“You’re not wrong,” I grin, and he laughs. When he walks away, my view across the bar opens up, and I stop.
“Hello…” I murmur under my breath just before my glass touches my lips again.
My attention is locked on two women seated at the other end of the bar.
One of them is wearing a black peacoat. She has gorgeous dark hair and fair cheeks and her blush from the cold matches the pink of her lips.
She’s cute, but she’s not the one who has me holding my drink in midair, frozen between the bar top and my waiting mouth.
It’s her friend I am intrigued by.
She’s thin, but not two salads and an hour of cardio a day thin. Naturally thin. Her blonde hair is pin-straight and parted perfectly in the middle. Her pointed features are accentuated, but her dimples give her face a cuteness that softens the sharpness.
I finally reunite my glass with my lips and suck back a decent amount of the drink while I continue watching her.
She sheds her jacket and I smirk.
She’s wearing a sweater dress. I didn’t even know they made those anymore.
She’s talking to her friend, and her pouty expression tells me she’s having a rough evening.
It appears she came here for the same reason most people go to bars on Friday nights…to drink away the stress of the week. I wonder what that week entailed and what’s got her so tightly wound.
What it would be like to unravel her…
The bartender sets down two tequila shots for them, and I watch as they toss them back. Her mouth puckers before she reaches for a chip.
I smile.
“Hungry?” the bartender asks.
I didn’t even realize he was standing in front of me.
I’m too distracted by the girl who isn’t typically my type. Not that I really have a type. Women are like Ben just because Cherry Garcia is my go-to doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy a tart Lemonade Sorbet from time to time.
“I only ask because you’re drooling,” he says.
“Yeah, I’m hungry…but not for food.”
He laughs and walks away.
I continue nursing my beer. It’s a local craft brew, malty with a hint of coffee and vanilla and a nice creamy foam head.
I pick up my phone and scroll for a moment, and delete notifications.
I like to appear busy and disinterested in my surroundings so it’s obvious to her when all my attention focuses on her.
I wait five seconds before I set my phone down and pick up my beer, realizing the sweater dress girl is looking at me.
She isn’t just casually looking either; she’s staring at me.
She looks away and then right back at me again.
I feel heat in my own cheeks, among other places, because she's blushing so violently.
She straightens the black horn-rimmed glasses on her face, sliding them up the bridge of her cute, upturned nose.
I smile at her and take a sip of my beer, look away, take another sip, glance back, smile, and look away.
I want it to be obvious to her that I am interested and intrigued, but not desperate. Never desperate. Never creepy.
When I allow myself to look at her again, she is standing.
She tosses back another shot of tequila, without the lime, straightens her dress and starts walking right towards me.
“Is this seat taken?” she asks the moment the guy next to me gets up and walks away. She realizes immediately that the timing of that age-old line is humorously off and blushes again.
I give her some grace. It’s clear this girl never does something like this, and everything about her expression says so.
“You’re in luck. It appears to have just opened up,” I tell her.
She swallows and nods before sitting down.
“I’m Charlotte,” she tells me, holding out a hand while I hold back a laugh.
“I’m surprised,” I tell her, squeezing her hand.
She blinks. “Why?”
“Because you don’t strike me as a girl who makes the first move,” I answer with an easy smile.
“Oh.” She smiles too, but it’s not an easy one.
Poor girl. She’s a ball of nerves with enough static to power a lightning storm.
“Yeah. Well. I am…a make the first move kind of girl I mean,” she stutters, combing her hair back behind her ears.
Not in the normal afterthought kind of way girls usually do it.
She does it neatly, symmetrically tucking the same amount of hair back on both sides.
“I do it all the time. In fact, you’re not the first guy I’ve talked to tonight. ”
“Yeah?” I ask, amused.
“Yeah.”
“Impressive.” I say, taking a sip of my beer and looking at her.
“Yeah,” she says and her smile slips. “I mean, no. I mean…I never do this. Actually, you’re the first guy I’ve talked to in more than a week, save for the bartender, and I don’t think he likes me very much.”
“Well, it’s a good thing he’s not the one buying you a drink tonight then, isn’t it?” I ask, and it takes her a second. “That was me offering to buy you a drink.”
“Oh. Oh! Of course. Yeah. A drink might be a good idea,” she says nervously.
“Yeah, I thought so too,” I smile and wave down the bartender
He walks in front of us, and I nod toward her. “Lady’s choice.”
“Another round of Jose?” the bartender asks.
“Actually, I’ll have a beer. The shandy, please,” she says. Both the bartender and I raise an eyebrow. “What? I like beer. I actually hate tequila.”
“Is that why you just pounded two shots of it?” I ask.
“No. I pounded two shots of it because tequila works a lot faster than beer does,” she answers, thanking the bartender as he sets her beer down.
“Got it,” I nod. “Rough day?”
“Rough week,” she says, taking a ginger sip of her shandy and I’m not surprised she likes lemon.
“Damn,” I say.
“How about you? What has you drinking alone on a Friday night?” she asks and unbeknownst to her, she’s better at this than she thinks.
“Last I checked, I’m having a drink with a beautiful girl,” I say, and she spits out a laugh that sprays beer foam across the bar top.
Again, her cheeks blaze.
“Sorry,” she says. “I’m just not used to guys using pickup lines on me.”
“You think that was a pickup line?” I ask as she wipes down the bar top with a napkin.
“Oh, I know it was. That’s how flirting works. Men make catchy compliments, women feel good about themselves, and it goes back and forth until one of them asks the other for a phone number or a nightcap,” she rattles off with the verbal efficiency of a typewriter.
“Damn.” I let out a low whistle. “I didn’t know there was a formula to flirting. Here I’ve been free-wheeling it all this time.”
“There’s a formula to everything,” she smiles, crossing her legs.
This girl is something else. I don’t know if I’ve ever met anyone like her. Shallow, ditzy girls are a dime a dozen, but this girl is obviously neither of those things.
“I see. And what happens when someone strays from the formula?” I ask.
“I don’t know. I guess they part ways and never see each other again,” she says, taking another sip.
“Shit. Well, that would be unfortunate. I guess we'd better stick to the formula then. I love your dress, by the way,” I say.
“You do?” she asks, looking down at it.
“Sure,” I shrug with a smirk and her eyes narrow on me, though she’s smiling.
“You’re lying,” she says.
“Maybe. But I’m still following the rules, right?” I ask, and she laughs.
For the first time, I feel like the smile is real, not forced or nervous. “You have a great laugh.”
“Wow,” she shakes her head. “You’re good.”
“No, I really meant that. Look.” I pull up the sleeve of my Henley shirt to just below my elbow. “You gave me goosebumps.”
“From my laugh?” She smiles, touching her lips with her fingers.
“Yep,” I smile back.
Then her eyes dart back down to my arm. “I like your tattoo,” she says, studying the heart with two swords piercing it.
“Thanks. I’ve had it for about twenty years,” I say. “Look at us. I think we’re doing great at this formulated banter thing. Let me ask you something. Do you always approach conversations this calculatedly?”
“Oh, I approach everything this calculatedly. It’s convenient, although it’s not exactly sexy,” she says, sipping her beer.
“I think it’s only fair if I get to be the judge of that, don’t you?”
“I suppose that would be following the rules,” she agrees and I grin.
“It’s Gavin, by the way,” I say, holding up my glass.
“Charlotte,” she says, holding her beer up too. “But I already told you that.”
“Yes, you did,” I say, clinking my glass to hers.
“I think it’s good to be upfront about things,” she says, taking another sip. “Especially intentions.”
“Well, then I’ll be real with you. I find you very interesting, Charlotte.”
“Just interesting?” she asks, blinking her long eyelashes several times.
“Would you rather I’d use a different word?” I ask.
“I don’t know. Interesting sounds dull.”
“I thought interesting was the opposite of dull,” I say, scratching the back of my neck.
“No. Intriguing is the opposite of dull,” she says. Then she sets her glass down with a pout that makes her pink lips look fuller. “I’m sorry. I’m not very good at flirting, am I?”
“Not really,” I grimace, “But you’re a great conversationalist.”
With that, she slumps with a persecuted sigh. “God, that’s even worse than interesting.”
“It is?”
“Oh, absolutely,” she nods. “No one wants to be the interesting girl in the room.”
I study her for a moment before clicking my tongue. “Let’s try something else. Why are you here, Charlotte?”
“Because I recently went through a breakup and it sort of triggered a quarter-life crisis, so I wanted to dress up and get drunk,” she says candidly. Her honesty is refreshing.
“I mean, why did you approach me?” I say, turning to face her. My knee presses against hers, and I make a point of keeping it right there.
“I wanted to do something spontaneous and bold. I think it’s clear that I am not good at this, and I’m sure there are plenty of other women in this room who could offer you a much more exciting evening,” she says, hopping off the stool. “Thank you for the beer.”
“Wait,” I say, not really sure what’s going on. “Can I at least have your number?”
Charlotte turns back to look at me with a small smile. “I’m not looking for anything serious, Gavin. Just something I can look back on with a smile that confuses people and that I never explain to anyone.”
Static fissures under my skin and I stand up next to her.
She’s a little slip of a thing and I tower over her in a way that both our bodies respond to.
I can feel the tension between us.
“Alright. Well, do you want to get out of here then?” I ask.
“Really?” she asks.
“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t mean it,” I tell her.
She blinks, her blue eyes dancing with thrill. “Sure,” she answers and I place my hand on the small of her back and lead her out into the crisp night air.