Chapter 12
KATIE
Katie
You sure you won’t be mobbed at this place?
Tristan
No one will recognize me here. I’ll be wearing a disguise.
Katie
You’re going to wear a hat and sunglasses inside, aren’t you?
Tristan
How did you know?
Katie
Because you suck at disguises…Remember when we snuck out of your birthday early last year? Your mustache fell off into a potted fern.
Tristan
You take that back.
Katie
You’re right, Clark Kent. The hat will totally work.
“Him.”
I look where Tristan is pointing, across the dimly lit bar, to a man standing under the mismatched light fixtures on the wood-paneled wall.
The guy in question is tall and handsome and wearing a henley that pulls over broad shoulders.
Just looking at him makes me feel nervous.
My eyes dart away, over the Friday-night crowd at the Hart’s Hill bar with their t-shirts and their ball caps.
More my crowd than Tristan’s, but still intimidating.
I take another sip of ginger ale. “No.”
“What’s wrong with him?” Tristan’s bright green eyes are incredulous when I look back at him. “He’s probably the best-looking guy here. Excluding yours truly, of course.”
“Hot guys make me nervous. I want to start smaller.”
Tristan’s mouth parts. “But you’re not nervous around me.”
“Maybe I don’t think you’re that hot.” I give him a sunny smile.
Today, I am immune to his charms. The way his lips wrap around the glass bottle does nothing for me.
The movement of his throat as he swallows doesn’t make me feel hot or unsettled as I watch it.
I shift in my seat and ignore the beer Tristan got me.
He’s staring at me.
“What?”
“Drink the beer, Bailey.”
“I’m technically working.”
“You’re making me itchy. Stop twitching.”
I still my knee from where it’s jogging under our small table. “I’m not twitching.”
Tristan gives the beer a pointed look, where the liquid is sloshing from my movements. “Why are you so nervous?”
“I don’t do this,” I hiss.
“Socialize? Yes, you do. You’re not a shut-in. You’re a twenty-six-year-old woman with passable social skills and atrocious taste in clothing.”
I glare at him. “I know what you’re doing.”
“Is it working?”
My shoulders slump. “No. This was a mistake.”
He chuckles. “Spending our Friday night at a crappy dive bar with all the town’s regulars? We could always discover a heretofore unknown STD, Bailey. Take heart.”
I flick him a dirty glance. He smirks at me before he leans back in his chair, sprawling really, taking up an irritating amount of space.
He is distractingly muscled. Must be from all the barrel hauling he was doing at the distilleries.
His faded t-shirt strains at the shoulder seams. Women are darting glances at him, and I can’t tell if it’s because they think he’s regular hot, or because they think he’s famous hot.
No one has worked up the courage to approach, but it’s only a matter of time.
Going out with Tristan is impossible now.
There’s a permanent crowd of reporters at the estate gates, and I had to physically clear a path for him during the two coffee dates he went on this week.
Here, at least, the onlookers seem too in awe to approach him.
I scowl as I scan the crowd. I’m sure with enough liquid courage, things will get weird.
And Tristan—I look back at him. He’s not watching the crowd.
His green gaze is steady on me from under the brim of a low ball cap that I mocked him for as we drove.
His hair curls out from under the edges.
He might be famous, but he still fits in here.
He is a chameleon. Comfortable wherever he goes.
It’s his innate confidence. I desperately need his help.
He’s sipping his beer and waiting for me to hit on someone, and I want to be sick.
“I don’t think I can do this.”
“Why?”
I press my sweaty palms flat on my jeans. I’m not carrying tonight because I thought I might drink, so Nour is on standby. Still. I wipe them again.
“I’ve never picked a guy up before.”
His brows go up. “Never? But you’ve had boyfriends.”
I lift one shoulder. “Here and there. None of them were serious. I just sort of…fell into things with them. They didn’t make me nervous. Shouldn’t I be attracted to a guy enough that he makes me nervous? Shouldn’t my heart flutter?”
Tristan looks alarmed. “I don’t think hearts are supposed to do that.”
I make a face at him. “Tell me how to flirt or how to make small talk, then.” I cast around desperately. “Tell me what men like. Come on, Tristan. You’re a guy. What do you like?”
He stills, beer halfway to his lips. “You want to know what I like?” The bottle clinks hard on the table as he sets it down.
My stomach flips at the intensity of his gaze as he searches my face. Danger. I’m not supposed to care what Tristan likes, but now that I’ve asked, I feel like I’m standing at the edge of a cliff waiting to be pushed off.
“Confidence,” he finally says. His voice is a low hum that skates up my spine.
“I like women who are so innately themselves that you can’t look away.
People who don’t apologize for being weird or different.
You know those people who laugh really loudly?
Like the world is one big inside joke?” He leans forward, gaze intense. “That’s what I like.”
My mouth is dry. Without thinking, I fumble for my drink, only realizing it’s beer after I’ve taken two long, bracing sips and some of it has gone up my nose.
“Is that all?” I cough, eyes watering.
His eyes are laughing at me. “That’s all. Easy enough.”
“Totally easy. Just be myself and the world is my oyster, right?” I snort a laugh and grab for my beer again. Liquid courage is needed if Tristan is going to be this unhelpful.
His expression is slightly alarmed when I look back. “What?”
“Nothing. Are you ready to try and hit on someone?”
I blow out a breath. “How do I know if a guy is into me?”
Tristan coughs, then sets his beer down. “Most guys will be into you.”
I wave that away. Tristan is far too confident.
He doesn’t realize what it’s like being a mere mortal.
“But how do I know? What do you do when you hit on someone? How do you know if there’s attraction or if it’s just the alcohol talking?
What if you think there’s something there and then you kiss them and it’s terrible—”
“Bailey.”
“What?”
His lips are quirked. “I can see you spiraling.”
My face heats. “They’re legitimate questions.”
He considers me for a few long seconds. “You know what your issue is?”
“No, but I’m sure you’ll tell me.”
“You need confidence.”
“I am confident,” I exclaim. “I have 98 percent accuracy on a moving target. I can break a wristlock in under a second.” I scowl. “I beat you up just the other morning, didn’t I?”
He’s grinning now. “I recall being on top.”
My skin is washed in heat. I recall it too. In fine detail. Every lash framing his eyes, every breath from his lips, every shift of his thigh between mine.
“I feel most confident when I’m doing physical activity, I guess. That’s my comfort zone.”
“What about dancing? That’s physical activity. It’ll help you feel good. Feeling sexy is the first step on the way to having good sex.” He tips his head to the dance floor where a band is tuning up.
I blow out a long breath. Talking about this with Tristan makes me feel electric and weird, like I’m running on a narrow trail with a steep cliff on one side. I watch him take a long, slow sip of beer, and the way he licks his lips after makes that feeling balloon inside me. Nope. Not going there.
There’s a guy with dark blond hair on the other side of the dance floor. He’s looking my way. He’s attractive, but not intimidatingly so.
“What about him?”
The words spill out, and Tristan’s gaze flicks to the other side of the bar.
“Which one?”
“The one with the beard.”
He makes a considering sound, like he’s weighing the guy, but I can’t judge his reaction.
“What would you do?”
“Me? I don’t really like blonds, but he has nice arms,” Tristan drawls.
I snort while sipping my beer, and liquid clogs my nose. Tristan grins, looking devilish under the golden glow of the lights. “Hot. Totally hot. Don’t look now. I think he’s turned on.”
I moan, then cough.
“Yup,” Tristan says, glancing at the guy. “Fully erect. Hold on, can you make your eyes water a bit more? If you could be a bit redder—yeah like that.”
I fold my arms and bury my head in them. “I hate you so much.”
He pats my arm unconvincingly. “There, there. But you are feeling less nervous, aren’t you?”
“I suppose,” I mutter.
“So go ask him to dance.”
“There’s only one small problem. I can’t dance. I don’t know how.”
“Honestly, Bailey. What were they teaching you in public school?” The teasing grin on his face is so very Tristan, and my stomach flutters.
This is how I’d want a first date to feel. Easy, full of laughter and secrets. With a guy who looks like Tristan—so handsome you can’t look away, with a quick smile and broad shoulders and nice hands.
“Can you dance?”
He looks affronted. “Of course I can.”
“Great.” I push up out of my chair and straighten my top. “You can teach me. Then I’ll ask him. Let’s go.”
His eyes widen briefly before he sighs and tips the rest of his beer into his mouth. He slams it on the table and licks the final drop off his lips. Heat curls in my stomach as I watch.
“Going to need that,” he says, pushing up to his full height.
“Why?”
He winks. “For when you step on my feet.”