2. Gavin #2
She peeks in my direction. Only one glittering eye is visible. The other remains hidden behind that curtain of dark hair. “I know what I like.”
Fuck, why is that hot?
Even when they’re my age, most people don’t really know what they like.
Hell, I’m beginning to wonder if I even know what I like.
I drink Hanson whiskey because my friends own it.
I run the hockey team because I couldn’t play professionally and my father handed the reins over to me.
I live in a huge penthouse with an incredible view of the Boston skyline because I was told it was the most expensive unit in the city.
If it’s the most expensive, then it’s the best, right?
And as a Langfield, I’m expected to own the best.
“Can you make me one of those too?” I ask the bartender as he pours my seatmate’s drink into a margarita glass.
Her lips quirk almost imperceptibly, and damn if the knowledge that I’m making her happy doesn’t have me growing harder.
That’s new.
Sinatra was onto something. It’s gotta be witchcraft.
The bartender slides her drink toward her and then gets to work on mine. While I wait, I keep my eyes trained on her. It might be creepy, and I should probably stop, but if the way those gold flecks in her eyes are dancing are any indication, she’s amused rather than bothered by my attention.
I’m used to being the entertainment, the funny brother, so I don’t mind in the slightest being hers.
The music starts up again—this time it’s John Mayer.
The room grows quiet, as often happens when Benny plays.
For a Boston crowd, this one is subdued.
This is exactly why I frequent this bar.
I appreciate Benny’s relaxing vibe after a long day.
There’s no one waiting for me at home, so most nights, if I’m not at a hockey game or watching the local MLB team—my older brother’s baby; I oversee the Bolts, and he oversees the Revs—I either drag my brothers out or end up here by myself.
When my new drink is placed in front of me, the woman to my left angles herself toward me and presses her lips together in a hint of a smile as she waits for me to take a sip.
I can’t stop the cringe that overtakes me the moment the tangy sweetness hits my tongue. “Oh god. That’s awful.”
The bartender’s eyes go wide and panicked.
Coughing, I hold up my hand. “It has nothing to do with your skills. But fuck, I don’t like that.”
The woman beside me giggles, then turns back to face the bar—away from me.
I wince. “It’s not that it isn’t a good drink, it’s just?—”
“Not for you.”
The bartender slides a glass of water in front of me, so I snatch it off the bar top and down it.
“Yes. It’s not for me at all. Sorry,” I say, nodding at the man behind the bar this time.
He chuckles and shakes his head. “’Nother whiskey?”
I sigh. When was the last time I drank anything other than Hanson whiskey? “You have a menu?”
“You seemed to be enjoying your whiskey,” the woman beside me says.
“What’s your name?” I ask her, shifting her way.
She assesses me, eyes narrowed and lips pressed together, as if to say why the hell do you want to know?
“I’m Gavin,” I offer.
She shakes her head and picks up her glass. “Not interested.”
I cough out a surprised laugh. “I was just being polite.”
“No you weren’t.” Her cranberry-painted lips tip up into that knowing smirk. “What’s with the drink menu? We both know you’ll only end up with another drink you dislike. Clearly, you are a man of habit who always drinks whiskey.”
Amusement flits through me. “You been spying on me?”
She delicately licks the edge of her glass, her tongue peeking out just enough to swipe at the salt, then hums and takes another sip.
I realize then that her eyes aren’t truly brown.
As the light hits her perfectly, the golden specs seem to blend together, revealing a rich, mesmerizing rose gold.
They fix on me as she sets her drink down again. “No. Just know your type.”
“Well, you happen to be wrong, witchy woman. I am a man who likes to try new things.”
She smiles. “Witchy woman?”
“That was you playing when I came in, right?” I play dumb, as if I didn’t know precisely who she was the minute she sat down.
She presses her hands against the edge of the bar and pushes back, as if she’s going to leave. “I don’t play games, Gavin. Have a good night.”
On instinct, I grasp her elbow, holding her in place.
She looks down at my hand, and her brows furrow before she looks back up at me.
Stomach sinking, I let her go, holding my hand up, fingers splayed. “I’m sorry. I just—You were incredible up there.”
Her face softens, and she might even be blushing under the praise.
Like maybe she isn’t used to being complimented for her talent.
So far, she’s been bold, confident. She’s comfortable in the revealing dress, like she knows exactly what she’s working with.
But when it comes to her ability to sing and entertain a crowd with her piano playing, she’s suddenly shy.
And damn if the juxtaposition isn’t intriguing.
“Thank you.”
“Will you stay?” I ask, because damn, do I want her to. I’m not ready for her to walk away. “Help me find what I like?”
She watches me with a thoughtfulness so profound it’s hard to comprehend.
Like she sees something in me, understands me in a way I don’t even understand myself.
She’s an old soul. That much is clear. I’m afraid that if she looks too closely, she’ll realize I’m shallow and have nothing to offer, that if she sees the real me, she’ll pull back and say good night.
So I’m pleasantly surprised when she instead settles back on her stool and motions to the menu that’s been placed in front of me. “Well, what are we trying?”