Chapter 32
Finn
Everything was hazy, fuzzy in a way that made me wonder if I was deep underwater in some exotic cavern. The waking world tugged at my mind, but my bed—and the warmth of my heavy blanket—demanded far greater attention.
Then the buzzing started.
I was just awake enough to wonder, What the hell is that?
But it was persistent. No, it was insistent.
Buzz. Pause. Buzz.
It sounded like something vibrating atop the table by the bed, the one with nothing but a lamp and the alarm clock I’d used since my freshman year of college.
I tried to wake up, but random images, fragments of dreams or unconscious, poorly planned thoughts flashed in my head.
Why is there a vibrator on my nightstand? And why would a vibrator pause itself, like it hit the wrong spot and needed to adjust before resuming its work? Why wouldn’t it just stay on?
My mind startled at the unbidden questions. I didn’t even own a pleasure wand, much less a battery-powered one. And yet, the vibrating continued, pulsing in ways that made my morning wood throb. If there was a wonder bar somewhere nearby, maybe this dream could become—
Thud.
Buzz. Pause. Buzz.
I bolted upright.
The nightstand was empty. The dildo of death had fallen to the floor. I scooted so half my body hung off the mattress and stretched my hand beneath the bed.
It wasn’t the erotic excitement I’d hoped for.
It was just my phone.
A laugh escaped as I flopped back onto my pillow, offending device in hand.
The screen was still locked, but I could see a series of text messages had just come through.
I assumed they were from a certain attorney, and my heart threatened to flutter away like some horny butterfly determined to pollinate everything in sight.
I was grinning at nothing like an absolute idiot, still visualizing colorful wings struggling against the weight of an ungainly penis, when my phone buzzed again. My thumb moved faster than my brain could react.
Mark: DUDE
Mark: DUDE
Mark: Answer me!
Mark: Fuck it. Check Instagram. Now.
Mark: THE BAR ACCOUNT IS BLOWING UP.
I blinked at the screen, confused, then opened Instagram.
Five hundred and forty-three new followers since last night.
What?
I scrolled through the notifications, and then I saw it.
Someone had recorded the kiss.
Not just recorded it—captured the whole moment in perfect clarity: me leaning across the bar, Chase’s face lighting up, the kiss itself, the bar erupting, Benji in the background jumping up and down, and somehow, impossibly, they’d tagged Barbacks in the post.
The caption read: “This is the most romantic thing I’ve ever witnessed at a bar. New favorite place in Tampa. #barbacks #ybor #gaytampa #cutest”
The post had 2,847 likes and God only knew how many views.
“Oh God,” I said to my empty bedroom. “Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God.”
My phone buzzed again.
Mark: People are OBSESSED with you two.
Mark: The comments are all “relationship goals” and “this is so cute I’m crying.”
Mark: We got like 15 DMs asking when we’re open next.
Mark: NO FUCKING WAY! Some dude with an account that looks legit—a LIGHNING PLAYER—commented! WTF?!?
Mark: This is the best marketing we’ve ever had and it cost us NOTHING.
Mark: Also you’re a LEGEND.
I scrolled through the comments on the post.
“The way he just WENT FOR IT”
“That bartender’s face though”
“I’m not crying. You’re crying!”
“I need a man who will kiss me in front of 80 people without hesitation”
“WHEN WILL IT BE MY TURN”
“Adding this bar to my Tampa bucket list immediately”
I was going to die. Right there in my bed. I was going to die of embarrassment.
Buzz.
“Fuck me. What now?” I said to my empty bedroom.
Priya: So . . .
Priya: You kissed him.
Priya: In front of everyone?
Priya: And I learn about this from my Insta notifications? You are in serious trouble, young man. No one pisses off an Indian mother.
I could practically hear her voice through the text—that particular combination of amusement and exasperation that only Priya could manage.
Me: You’re not my mother. You’re not even A mother.
Priya: Oh, no you do not, young man. You will not “cute” your way out of this. I have QUESTIONS.
Me: Aren’t you working?
Priya: I am between patients. Answer the question.
Me: What question? You didn’t ask a question.
Priya: WHY DID YOU KISS HIM IN FRONT OF THE ENTIRE BAR?
Wow. Priya, my always calm and composed roomie, was yelling at me—in a text message. This was worse than I thought.
Me: It seemed like a good idea at the time?
Priya: Finn.
Me: What? It was!
Priya: Hold on.
Five minutes passed. I got up, padded to the kitchen, and started making coffee. Our apartment was quiet. Priya had left for the hospital hours ago. The place felt empty without her chaos.
I was pouring water into the coffee maker when my phone buzzed again.
Priya: Back. Another old woman fell. Story of my life. Anyway. You KISSED him.
Me: I’m aware. I was there.
Priya: And?
Me: And what?
Priya: How was it? How do you feel? What happened after? Did you go home with him? Did you get some of the Big D? That is what you gays call it, is it not? It is big? Tell me it is big. I cannot take you asking, “Is it in?”
I was alone in the kitchen in my apartment; and yet, the desire to crawl into one of the cabinets and disappear forever was overwhelming.
Me: Are you actually asking about my sex life while at work?
Priya: I am a physician. It is literally my job to make people uncomfortable. Now, stop dodging and tell me everything.
I smiled despite the waves of heat slamming into my face with every new text. I grabbed my mug and shuffled into the den and onto the couch.
Me: You saw everything online. He left after that, had early meetings. It was just a kiss.
Priya: A very public kiss.
Me: Yeah, didn’t see that coming.
Priya: Speaking of coming . . .
Me: PRIYA!
Priya: Kidding (although I would love that detail if it happened). Do you like him?
Me: Obviously I like him. I kissed him in front of the freakin’ world.
Priya: There’s “like” and there’s LIKE LIKE. Which is it?
I stared at my phone, at Priya’s text, and felt something warm spread through my chest at the thought of admitting this to someone other than the knuckleheads at the bar, someone whose opinion truly mattered to me.
Me: Yeah, I really like him.
Priya: Good. He seems nice. Also hot. But mostly nice.
Me: He’s both.
Priya: You have a date planned? Tell me you have a date after that kiss.
Me: Yes. We’re doing dinner. He’s picking me up at 6.
Priya: HOLD ON. DAMN IT.
Another wait.
I sipped my coffee and pulled up Instagram again, scrolling through more comments on the kiss video. Someone had even made a GIF of the moment—just the kiss itself, looping endlessly with a text overlay that read, “Horny Rivals has nothing on these two! #barbacks”
I should have been mortified.
Instead, I couldn’t stop smiling. I may have even giggled, though I would never admit that to anyone, especially not Priya.
Priya: Back. Patient emergency. Not dying, just dramatic. ANYWAY. What are you wearing?
Me: To dinner? I don’t know. Clothes?
Priya: Finn, I swear to God.
Me: What? I haven’t thought about it.
Priya: It’s 11:50 a.m. Dinner is at 6.
Me: I just woke up!
Priya: Think about it NOW. Blue shirt. The one I bought you for your birthday. It makes your eyes pop.
Me: You bought me that shirt two years ago.
Priya: And you’ve worn it exactly three times because you “forget you have it.” Wear it tonight. Trust me.
Me: Okay fine. Blue shirt.
Priya: Good. And do something with your hair.
Me: What’s wrong with my hair?
Priya: Everything when you let it air dry and hope for the best.
Me: I don’t “hope for the best.”
Priya: You absolutely do. Use product—the stuff in the yellow container. FINN, I KNOW YOU. NOT THE WHOLE BOTTLE.
Me: I wasn’t going to use the whole bottle.
Priya: Liar. Gotta go. Good luck tonight. Don’t overthink. He already likes you. You already kissed him in front of everyone. Just be yourself.
And then she was gone, and I was alone with my coffee and my thoughts.
Which was dangerous.
Because my thoughts went to: What if last night was just adrenaline? What if the kiss was just a moment and he regrets it? What if the blow job and office encounter were flukes—delicious, horny flukes—that Chase now regretted? What if dinner is awkward? What if I say something stupid? What if—
My phone buzzed. Jesus. What was with people today? I almost tossed it aside, sure it was more of Mark’s teasing or Priya’s mothering, but Chase’s name flashed on the screen. I couldn’t open the text fast enough.
Chase: Good morning, handsome. How’d you sleep?
The knot in my stomach loosened.
Me: Great actually. You?
Chase: Better than I have in months. That’s your fault.
Me: My fault?
Chase: My lips tingled all night. Is there such a thing as aftershocks from a kiss? Maybe phantom tongue? Like when someone loses a limb but still feels it tingle?
I laughed out loud right there in my empty apartment.
Me: I’m not medically qualified to answer that. We should consult Priya.
Chase: Still on for dinner tonight?
Me: Absolutely.
Chase: Good. I’m looking forward to it.
Me: Me, too.
Chase: Fair warning: I may be slightly distracted at work today.
Me: Work crazy?
Chase: No. From the kiss.
I sat there on my couch, grinning at my phone like a complete idiot. I even pumped my fist in the air like a hockey player who’d just scored a goal.
Me: Yeah. All of it was pretty good.
Chase: Pretty good? I’m going to need to up my game tonight.
Me: Your game is fine
Chase: FINE? That’s even worse than pretty good.
Me: You know what I mean!
Chase: I’m giving you so much grief tonight about this. You might even need a spanking.
Oh, shit. Was he into spanking? Or bondage? Or kinky stuff? I was more vanilla than all the beans in France. I didn’t even know how to respond. Apparently my butt cheeks did because they tingled at the thought. I was so screwed.
Me: I look forward to it. Dinner I mean. Not the spanking. Although . . .
Chase: I should get back to work. Lunch meeting in 20. I’ll pick you up at 6?
Me: I’ll be ready.
Chase: Can’t wait to see you.
By 3 p.m. I’d tried on four different shirts (settled on the blue one Priya recommended), done something with my hair (used the product, not the whole bottle), cleaned the apartment (Why?
Chase wasn’t coming inside. But I cleaned anyway.), checked my phone forty-seven times, and paced enough that I could have walked to his office and back.
There was a knock on the door.
I opened it, and there was Chase, wearing dark jeans, a button-down that was nicer than anything I owned, and that smile that made my stomach flip.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi,” I managed.
“You look amazing.”
“You, too.”
We stood there for a second, just smiling at each other like teenage idiots.
“Ready?” Chase asked.
I grabbed my jacket from the hook by the door. Tampa had decided it needed one day of winter. The temps were in the upper fifties.
“Yeah,” I said. “Let’s go.”