Chapter 33
Chase
Because I was the kind of person now who arrived early to dates and sat in his car taking deep breaths like a teenager picking up his prom date.
I checked my reflection in the rearview mirror one more time, sucked in a deep breath, and climbed out of the car.
I knocked on the door at six o’clock . . . and fifty-two seconds.
Yes, I checked, because, fuck me, I just did.
Finn opened the door, and whatever nervous energy I’d been carrying evaporated.
He looked . . . God, he looked beautiful. The blue shirt he wore made his eyes even brighter than usual, and his auburn hair seemed somehow more coppery than I remembered.
And that smile—dear God.
“Hi,” I said, sounding like an idiot.
“Hi.” His smile widened.
“You look amazing.”
“You, too.”
We stood there for a second, just grinning at each other like complete fools.
“Ready?” I asked.
He grabbed a jacket from the hook by the door. “Yeah. Let’s go.”
717 South, the kind of place you’d miss if you didn’t know to look for it despite being positioned on Howard Avenue, was one of the busiest restaurant and bar spots outside of Ybor.
Diego had recommended the place months ago, claiming they served the “best Italian food in Tampa, even if their dishes sound a little quirky.”
“I’ve never been here,” I admitted as we pulled into the parking lot. “But I’ve heard good things.”
“Neither have I,” Finn said. “I don’t get out much. Between the bar and . . . well, the bar.”
“We should fix that.”
“Yeah?” He was smiling. “You planning on taking me out more often?”
“If you’ll let me.”
Finn’s head ducked, and his cheeks colored, though his smile never wavered. “I think I can make room in my schedule.”
The restaurant was everything Diego had promised—intimate with warm lighting, exposed brick walls, and small tables that felt private even though the place was packed and everyone could see everyone else.
“Wine?” I asked as the server approached our table.
“Water’s fine for me,” Finn said. “I spend most nights surrounded by alcohol. I need a break.”
We ordered waters—sparkling for me, still for Finn—and flipped open our menus.
A moment later, the server returned with our waters and a basket of bread that smelled like heaven and cheese and garlic had a three-way.
“This is our house focaccia,” she said. “Careful, it’s still hot.”
We both reached for a piece at the same time, our hands brushing. Finn grinned and pulled back, letting me go first. I took a bite.
Oh my God.
It was indeed still warm, the crust crispy, the inside soft and pillowy. It was like someone had taken butter and cheese and herbs and pure joy and maybe a little naked ecstasy and baked them into bread form. Finn was staring at me with wide eyes.
“Is it that good?” he asked. “You look like you need to change your underwear.”
I grunted a laugh but didn’t dare stop chewing. “Just try it.”
He took a piece, dipped it into the marinara, then bit into it. His eyes rolled back.
“Oh my God,” he said through the bite. “This should be illegal.”
“Right? It probably is, and we’re about to get arrested.”
“I could eat this entire basket and be happy.”
We demolished three pieces each before the server came back to take our orders.
“I’ll have the chicken,” I said, scanning the menu.
“And for you?” the server asked Finn.
“The Asian pot roast,” Finn said. “I’ve never seen pot roast done Asian-style. I have to try it.”
“Excellent choices,” the server said, collecting our menus. “I’ll get those in for you.”
She left, and I reached for the bread basket again.
“We’re going to need more of this. Screw carbs and calories,” Finn said.
We talked while we munched the bread—about nothing and everything: his family back in Dublin, my mom in Clearwater, his sisters who thought Florida was insane, my complete lack of siblings, us growing up in different countries, different contexts, but somehow ending up here in the same city, at the same table.
It was strange. On my prior first dates with other guys, there was usually a lull, a point when conversation waned and one or the other might need to prompt a new conversation or topic.
It wasn’t like that with Finn. We chatted as though we’d always known each other, the words flowing freely and never ending.
“Do you miss Ireland?” I asked.
“Sometimes. Mostly I miss my family, but Tampa’s home now, weird as that feels to say.” He smiled. “What about you? Do you like it here?”
“Yeah, I do. I grew up in Clearwater, so it’s all I’ve really known. But I like Tampa, too. The city’s got energy. It . . . I don’t know . . . it feels like it has a lot of possibility, if that makes any sense.” I paused. “Although I should probably see more of it than just my office and your bar.”
“We can work on that . . . you know . . . if you want.”
The way he said it—we—made something warm settle in my chest.
Our food arrived, and the server set down our plates with a flourish.
My chicken looked golden and crispy, plated beautifully with roasted vegetables and lemon caper sauce drizzled artfully across the plate. But Finn’s pot roast looked incredible.
The meat was fall-apart tender, sitting in this rich, dark sauce with Asian flavors. I could actually smell the ginger and soy and something sweet from across the table.
Finn cut into his meat, took a bite, and made a sound that was borderline pornographic.
“Okay, that’s not fair,” I said.
“Oh my God, Chase.” He took another bite. “This is . . . I don’t even have words. This may be the best thing I’ve ever eaten.”
“Better than Rod’s food?”
“Don’t tell Rod, but yes.” He looked at my plate. “How’s your chicken?”
It was good—perfectly cooked and moist.
“It’s good,” I said.
“Just good?” Finn grinned. “You want some of this, don’t you?”
“Maybe.”
“Here. At least try it.” He cut a piece and held his fork out across the table.
I leaned forward and took the bite.
Holy shit.
It was incredible. The meat melted in my mouth, and the sauce was complex, with layers of flavor, sweet and savory and perfectly balanced.
“Okay,” I said. “That’s really, really unfair.”
Finn was laughing. “Want to share it?”
“I don’t want to take your food—”
“Chase. This is way too much for me. And your face when you tasted it—” He was still grinning. “Come on. Let’s just share.”
I signaled our server and asked for a to-go box for my chicken.
“Smart call,” she said, boxing it up. “The pot roast is our most popular dish. People fight over it.”
Once my chicken was safely boxed, Finn moved his plate to the center of the table, and we both dug in, eating off the same plate like we’d been doing this for years instead of hours.
We talked between bites—about the bar, my work, the strange trajectory that had led us both to Ybor on a random Tuesday night three weeks ago.
Finn prattled on about the Lightning’s chances in the playoffs and whether Horny Rivals was good television or just entertaining made-for-TV porn. We decided it was both—and we loved it.
I was mid-bite when I noticed movement in my peripheral vision.
A guy sat a few tables away with a couple of other men. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, wore a Lightning jersey, and had his phone raised.
He was taking a picture of us.
My brow furrowed.
What the hell?
I started to set down my fork, started to stand, started to say something—
But the guy was already out of his seat and hustling over to our table, phone in hand, looking sheepish and excited in equal measure.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I should have asked first, but I saw you guys and I got so excited and I just—I’m sorry. You’re Finn, aren’t you?”
Finn’s mouth opened but no words came out.
The guy went on, waving his phone in the air as he spoke. “I already posted it to Instagram, but I can take it down if you want? I’m just—you guys are like local celebrities now, and it’s so cool to see you in person and—”
He stopped, realizing he was rambling.
I stared.
Local celebrities?
What the actual fuck was he talking about?
“It’s okay,” Finn said, his face going red. “Don’t worry about it. It’s fine.”
“Really? You’re sure?” The guy looked relieved. “Because I can totally delete it—”
“It’s fine,” Finn repeated. “Honestly.”
“Oh . . . my . . . God! Thank you, Finn. You guys are so cute. Like, so cute. The kiss video? I’ve watched it like fifty times. I showed all my friends. We’re coming to the bar this weekend.” He was talking fast, excited. “Anyway, I’ll leave you alone. Enjoy your dinner!”
He scurried back to his table, still grinning.
I turned to Finn.
“The video?”
Finn’s face had gone from red to crimson to snow white.
“I, uh—” He blew out a long breath. “I kinda need to show you something.”
He pulled out his phone, opened Instagram, and slid it across the table.
I looked down at the screen.
And there we were.
The kiss from last night in crystal-clear quality. I was sitting at the bar. Finn leaned across. Our mouths met. The bar erupted in cheers around us.
The caption of that particular version read, “This is the most romantic thing I’ve ever witnessed at a bar. New favorite place in Tampa. #barbacks #ybor #gaytampa #cutest”
It now had 3,212 likes.
I scrolled, trying to make my brain cells bang together and make sense of what I was seeing. The comments went on forever.
“This is so pure I’m crying”
“RELATIONSHIP GOALS”
“The way they look at each other omg”
“I need a man who will kiss me like this”
“Adding this bar to my Tampa bucket list IMMEDIATELY”
I kept scrolling.
Finn was watching me, like he expected me to be upset.
“So . . . um . . .” he said, reaching across and swiping a few times. “There’s more.”
There were more posts. A lot more.
They were various camera angles of the same kiss.
Someone had made a GIF of just the moment our lips met.
Another person had done a slow-motion version.
Someone else had created a whole Instagram story analyzing our “adorable chemistry.”
“I didn’t know this was happening,” Finn said quickly, his words tumbling out.
“I mean, I knew last night was . . . a lot, but I didn’t know someone recorded it or that it went viral or that people were—” He gestured at the phone.
“I should have warned you before dinner, but I didn’t want to make it weird, and now it’s weird, and that guy just took our picture and probably posted it already and—”
His face buried itself in his hands as he muttered, “I can’t believe this is happening.”
I reached up and pulled one of his hands away, forcing him to look at me with one exposed eye. “I have an idea.”
“What?”
I stood up from the table.
“Chase, what are you—”
But I was already weaving between tables, crossing the restaurant toward the guy who’d taken our picture. He was sitting with three friends, all of them in Lightning gear. They looked up as I approached.
I glanced back to find Finn’s face had shifted from uncomfortable to confused to something bordering on horror.
“Hey,” I said when I reached their table. “Sorry to interrupt.”
“Oh my God, hi!” The guy who’d taken our picture looked thrilled. “I’m so sorry again about—”
“Don’t apologize. Actually, I have a favor to ask.” I glanced back at Finn, who was staring at me with wide, panicked eyes. “Would you guys mind taking a few more pictures? For Instagram. I want to give you something better than a candid.”
The entire table lit up.
“Are you serious?” one of them asked.
“Completely.” I smiled. “Just . . . give me a second to get back to the table. When I sit down, start recording.”
“Oh my God, yes. Absolutely. We’re ready.” The picture-taker was already pulling out his phone again, his friends doing the same.
I walked back to our table, where Finn was watching the group of guys, all of whom now had their phones up, pointed at us.
“Chase,” Finn hissed as I sat down. “What was that? What did you just—”
I didn’t let him finish.
I reached down, grabbed the front of his blue shirt, and pulled him toward me.
Our lips met—right over the empty pot roast plate—right in front of a restaurant full of people and four guys recording us on their phones.
I kissed him deeply, the way I’d wanted to kiss him all night but hadn’t because we were in public and I was trying to be appropriate. When I pulled back, Finn’s eyes were still closed, his lips slightly parted, his face flushed.
“What—” he started.
“If they’re going to take pictures,” I said, “we might as well give them something good.”
Finn blinked.
Then his face broke into a huge smile that made his eyes crinkle and showed all his teeth.
“You’re insane,” he said.
“Probably.”
“That was—you just—in front of everyone—”
“I did.”
“And you told them to record it.”
“I did.”
“Why?”
“Because.” I sat back and picked up my water glass. “I like you, and I’m not ashamed of it. In fact, I’m pretty darn proud of it. If the internet wants to watch us be happy, then let them watch.”
Finn blinked at me for a long moment.
Then he started laughing. “You’re insane,” he said again.
“You already said that.”
“It bears repeating.”
From the other table, one of the guys shouted, “THAT WAS PERFECT! Thank you!”
I raised my water glass in a salute. They all raised their beers back.
Finn was shaking his head. “Those are going to be online in, like, thirty seconds.”
“Probably already are.”
“People are going to see them.”
“Probably.” He shrugged.
“And you’re okay with that?”
“I’m really okay with it.” I reached across the table and took his hand, fairly certain that would get posted on Insta, too. “I’m okay with all of it, Finn—the videos, the pictures, the comments, the ‘local celebrity’ thing. All of it. Because none of it changes this.” I squeezed his hand.
Finn looked down at our joined hands, then back up at me. His eyes were bright—emotional maybe, or just reflecting the warm restaurant lighting. I hoped it was a good sign, but I couldn’t tell.
“I like you,” he said. “More than a little. Like . . . really . . . a lot.”
“Good. I like you, too.”
“Even though we’re trending right now?”
“Especially because of that.”
He laughed again and squeezed my hand back. “Okay. Fine. If you’re cool with it, I’m cool with it.”
“Yeah, me, too.”
“Good.” He grinned. “Because I think that kiss was even better than the one at the bar.”
“Yeah?”
“Fuck yes. It was very cinematic. The guys had a good camera angle. And damn, Mr. Sullivan, that was an A-plus performance.”
“I’ll pass your notes along to the directors.”
We finished our waters, paid the bill, waved at the boys who were watching our every movement, and walked out into the January evening.