Chapter 16 #2
I felt my face heat up. “Dear God, please don’t call me that in public.”
“Answer the question,” she said, crossing her arms and raising one very accusatory brow.
“There’s nothing I’m not telling you.”
“Finn.” She gave me a look. “Do not make me torture Mark. He will fold like a lawn chair.”
Mark’s eyes lit up with understanding right before he blurted out, “Sidewalk guy showed up.”
I slumped lower in the booth.
“Your lawyer showed up!” Priya was grinning now. “Why didn’t you lead with that?”
“Because he’s not my lawyer and him being there wasn’t important—”
“It is important!” Mark turned to Priya. “He’s been obsessing over this guy for weeks.”
“I have not been obsessing—”
“You have been obsessing worse than those boys in that show . . . what was it? Young Royals. Yes, that one, with the pimpled prince,” Priya confirmed.
“Pimpled prince?”
“Yes, it is most unfortunate, but he is still cute somehow.” She scowled. “Now, back to your lawyer—”
“He’s not my—”
“He sat in the corner and waited all night for Finn to grace him with his presence,” Mark, the traitor, offered.
“And?” Priya asked, a second brow joining the first, nearly reaching her hairline.
“And he was wearing a tight white T-shirt and jeans and looked unfairly hot for someone who was plainly exhausted.” The words tumbled out before I could stop them.
Priya raised an eyebrow. “You noticed what he was wearing? Do men do this thing?”
“Gay men do. It’s genetic or something,” I grumbled, annoyed at having a productive conversation turned into a boy band obsession. “Besides, it was hard not to notice.”
“Did you talk to him?” Priya asked.
“No, he most definitely did not,” Mark said, his tone sounding more like a disappointed father than my best friend. “Jacks tried to relieve him so he could go say hello, but Mr. Professional wouldn’t leave his post, not even for a two-minute ‘Give me your number so we can fuck later’ table visit.”
Priya pursed her lips. “Did you at least wave? Wink? Acknowledge his existence?”
“I was behind the bar the entire night, and we were slammed. I barely had time to breathe, let alone—”
“So you just stared at him from across the bar?” Priya was trying not to laugh.
“I didn’t stare—”
“You totally stared,” Mark said. “Jacks says—”
“Jacks is a collaborator!”
“I pay my spies well.” Mark grinned.
“Fine,” I said. “I was aware of his presence.”
“That is just starting with extra steps.” Priya leaned forward. “Okay, so you did not talk to him. Did you at least get his number?”
“No.”
“Do you know which firm he works for?”
“No.”
“Do you know anything about him besides the fact that he looks good in a tight T-shirt?”
“I know his name is Chase, he works in family law, he’s overworked, and he makes these sounds when he eats burgers that remind me of Russian porn.” I realized what I’d just said. “I mean—”
Mark was laughing so hard his eyes were watering.
Priya shook her head, but she was smiling.
“You are hopeless,” she said. “And smitten.”
“I’m not hopeless—”
“You are completely hopeless.” She pointed at me. “You need a plan.”
“I have a plan. We’re doing theme nights and—”
“Finn!” Mark snapped.
“A plan for Chase, you naughty little radish.” Priya grabbed the napkin I’d been writing on and turned it over.
“Naughty little what?” I stammered, then shifted back on topic. “I can’t plan a person—”
“You absolutely can.” She pulled out a pen.
“Step one, next time he comes in—and he will come in because that man waited four hours to talk to you—you acknowledge him. I do not care if you wave, smile, or send a carrier pigeon to his table. Just do something so he sees you recognize him and are happy he is there.”
“I can do that.”
“Step two,” she continued, holding up a second finger. “You send over a drink. Make him something special, not just a beer, something that says, ‘I noticed you’re here, and I’m glad about it. I made this just for you. Nobody else gets this drink. Only you.’”
“Okay. That’s a little over the—”
She was undeterred. “Step three: When things slow down, you go over there and you talk to him. You have an actual conversation, something more than thirty seconds.”
“What do I even say?”
“Start with ‘Hi, thanks for coming back,’” Mark suggested. “Then literally anything else. Ask about his day. Ask about his work. Comment on the weather. Tell him your carpet matches your drapes.”
“Mark!”
“And step four,” Priya continued, ignoring my panic while reaching across the table to grip my hand. “You get his number. Or give him yours. Or both. This is non-negotiable. I do not want to see you return to our apartment until you complete this mission. Do you understand?”
I stared at the napkin I hadn’t realized I’d shredded while we’d been talking.
“He might not come back,” I mumbled.
“He already came back,” Priya said gently.
“Maybe he just likes the food—”
“Finn.” Mark reached across the table and put his hand over mine and Priya’s. “Stop overthinking this. He likes you. You like him. The rest is just details.”
“I’m good at details.”
“Then detail your way into getting his phone number.”
Linda appeared with our pancakes—three massive golden stacks with bacon on the side that was crispy enough to shatter. We dug in, and the conversation shifted to safer topics: Rod’s menu innovations, Maya’s social media strategy, and whether we should invest in better sound system for the TVs.
But Priya’s four-step plan repeated in my head like a challenge.
Step one: Acknowledge him.
Step two: Send a drink.
Step three: Have an actual conversation.
Step four: Get his number.
It sounded so simple.
And utterly terrifying.
I’d flirted a million times with hundreds of guys. Hell, I’d picked up more than my fair share. Why was talking to this one making my insides turn to jelly? What was it about Chase that had me so twisted in knots?
I was being an idiot. I was handsome. No, I was a sexy fucker. I could win a man’s attention. Whether I could win his heart, well, that remained to be seen. But I could flirt, get his number, and talk him out of his painted-on jeans.
“Okay,” I said finally. “I’ll do it. Next time he comes in, I’ll follow the plan.”
“Promise?” Priya asked.
“Promise.”
Mark raised his coffee mug. “To Finn getting his shit together and getting laid. Eventually.”
“To Barbacks being a success,” Priya countered, raising hers.
“To not dying of anxiety before any of this works out,” I added, raising mine.
We clinked mugs.
And I tried not to think about green eyes and tight white T-shirts and the fact that I now had a plan for something I had no idea how to execute.
One step at a time.
I could do this.
Probably.