Chapter 6
6
“ R achel!” Sarah squeals as Patrick walks toward the bar. “His name is Patrick ! Are you fucking kidding me?!”
“There’s something magical about this place,” Emily chimes in, amused. “And you know you drink for free, right?”
“I know, but I wasn’t going to tell him that.”
We exchange glances, an almost electric energy buzzing between us.
“Don’t get ahead of yourselves,” I warn, though I can’t hide my own excitement. “I’m barely keeping my cool as it is … because look at that guy.”
“If that’s not your future husband, I don’t know who is,” Emily teases.
“I know! I’m freaking out right now!” My heart is racing. He’s exactly my type. And his eyes without the glasses … holy shit. They are so green.
“Seriously,” Sarah adds, biting her lip to stifle her laughter. “I’m already picking out bridesmaid dresses.”
“Stop,” I hiss, though I can’t hold back a smile. Aaron notices how we’re all staring at Patrick and winks at us as he finishes making the Irish coffees.
“Be cool, please ,” I whisper, panic rising slightly as Patrick heads back.
He returns with the drinks and a damp cloth in hand, his expression confused, like he’s trying to decode some sort of puzzle. His eyebrows knit together, and I find him so cute.
“Aaron, right?” he asks as he sets the drinks down. We all nod.
“He said we needed this?” Patrick places the cloth in the center of the table. I smile, thoroughly impressed that Aaron’s playing wingman.
As Patrick takes a seat, his knee bumps into mine, and the simple contact sends my heart rate back up. I try not to react, but my body betrays me as my cheeks flush again. He’s so close. I check him out, noticing how his jacket stretches over his broad shoulders. Patrick’s strong.
“If you’re going to sit with us, you need to be initiated,” Sarah says, ever the instigator.
Patrick raises an eyebrow. “Should I be scared? Am I joining the cult of cute brunettes?”
We all laugh. I hadn’t thought about how my best friends and I are all brunettes before, and how he, Nicholas, and Aaron are also brunettes.
“Looks that way.” His green eyes are unlike anything I’ve ever seen. I could stare at them for hours, but I break our eye contact, taking a sip of my drink.
“Pick a tattoo,” Emily says, sliding a pile of temporary tattoos his way.
He laughs softly, sorting through the pile with a thoughtful expression, deciding on a shamrock that matches mine. “Where should I put it?” he asks, his voice dropping just a little as his eyes land on mine.
Oh. I take my time, letting my eyes wander over his body, his neck, his jawline, dragging out the decision. This guy is so fucking hot. I don’t think he’s beard fishing. I think he would be just as hot without the beard. But I like the beard. Patrick is exactly my type—the kind who lifts weights and also eats carbs.
I lean in, tapping the skin on his neck. “Right here.”
“Rachel, do the honors,” Emily encourages.
Best friends ever. I peel back the plastic, and as I place the tattoo on his neck, I press the damp cloth against his skin. The air between us thickens, and I feel my heart pounding in my chest. His eyes hold mine, charged with a quiet intensity. The longer I hold the cloth, the more I feel the heat building between us.
Taking a peek, I smile. “All set.”
“So, Patrick,” Sarah starts. “What should we know about you? What does your Hinge bio say?”
He nervously laughs, shaking his head. “I’m off the apps.”
“Same,” I add quickly. “The apps are a dumpster fire.”
He smiles at me, then takes a sip of his drink. “I’m twenty-seven?—”
Emily doesn’t miss a beat. “What do you think about dating an older woman?”
He narrows his eyes, amused. “Aren’t we the same age?”
“We’re all thirty-one,” I say, holding his gaze a little longer than I mean to. “Well, Emily’s almost thirty-one.”
He bites his lip, and something flickers behind his eyes—something playful but also curious.
“What?” I prod.
“Age is just a number.” The way he looks at me when he says it … I know I’m blushing again. I try to stay composed, but I can feel my pulse quicken. He’s smooth, but it feels real. “I guess you should know that I work in cybersecurity, live in the Wicker Park neighborhood of Chicago, and grew up on a farm in Minnesota.”
“Farm to cybersecurity? That’s random.”
He nods, his expression softening. “Yeah, my parents still don’t really understand what I do.”
We all laugh, but there’s something in his tone that’s disarming. There’s a vulnerability there—a kind of “nice guy” energy that feels real, like he’s still nervous talking to the three of us. It’s kind of sweet. No, scratch that—it’s really sweet.
“Attention, High Fivers,” a voice crackles over the speaker. “It’s almost time for our beer pong tournament. Sign-up closes in five minutes.”
Patrick raises an eyebrow at me, wordlessly asking, Should we?
“Are you any good?”
“No.”
I laugh, appreciating his honesty. “Well, same.”
“Let’s be the worst team then,” he suggests before taking a sip of his Irish coffee.
I nod, smiling. “Last place champs. I’m in.”