Chapter 6 #2
The car ride was tense in a way I hadn’t intended, so my plan is to work double-time to skate right over that part of the day. Personally, I only know one place that can help with this—my favorite hole in the wall, Brigg’s.
I grab our six shots off the wooden bar top, balancing them strategically between my fingers.
I give a quick smile to the bartender as a ‘thank you’ and carry them carefully to the high-top table where Jake is sitting.
Clear liquid sloshes over the brims of the heavily poured glasses, dripping down my fingers.
I place half of them before him and set the others aside for me, wiping my hands on the back of my jeans.
“That’s a lot of alcohol before five o’clock,” he says with a grin.
“Time is an illusion.” That gets me a breathy laugh, and I smirk in my victory.
“Tin Man, meet Oil,” I tease, gesturing to the table as I explain the game.
“So, the rules are you take all three shots, back-to-back, and then you have to make a guess. Two are water, one is tequila. If you get it wrong, you have to buy the next round.”
“Okay,” he says with a chuckle, shifting in his seat. “But how do you know which is which?”
I shrug. “I just know.” He narrows his eyes at me, his hands still folded in his lap. “Just trust me,” I say encouragingly as I lift a tiny glass between my finger and thumb.
Jake grabs a shot from the table, raising it to match mine. “To…” I pause as I think of something to cheers to. When I find it, my eyes soften, and a cynical smile tilts my lips. “To stupid fucking love songs.”
Jake smiles back at me in appreciation, as if to say thank you for not judging me in my moment of defeat. I smile back knowingly, realizing I want to learn all the different ways Jake Cooper smiles. I tuck the thought away safely, mentally promising to never visit it again.
No distractions, I remind myself.
“To stupid fucking love songs,” he repeats, clinking his glass against mine.
We sling back all three of our shots, one after the other, the burn of the chilled tequila licking my throat as I force the last one down. Jake’s mouth stretches into a grimace, and he clears his throat, pointing to the glasses on the table.
“So those were all tequila,” he says with a strained voice, his fist hovering over his mouth.
“Yup,” I nod, my face still twisting from the lingering flavor. Maybe I should’ve splurged on the top-shelf brand.
He blinks a few times, shaking off the sting. His brow furrows as he points to my glasses. “Wait, why did you take three if you knew?”
I settle into my seat across from him with a shrug. “I’m a team player.”
He chuckles briefly, and my belly excites, gratified by the sound. He clears his throat once more as I suck the life out of a dry lime wedge, feeling the ease in my shoulders as the alcohol begins to work.
“So, what now?” he asks with that downward grin he does so well.
“Now, we talk.” I toss my lime into a small glass and reach for another.
“Talk?” His grin widens, and I feel it in my chest.
“Yes, you mime! It’s how you get to know people.” He laughs, and the satisfaction of it dances on my skin.
It’s working, I think to myself. Keep going.
“So, tell me what else you hate,” I say.
“That is a terrible topic.”
“It’s a great one! I want to know what else you find romantically delusional,” I say, adding air quotes.
He laughs again, his gaze wandering in the space of Brigg’s Bar. I watch as his shoulder slacks into the familiar ease mine have found.
“Uhh…” I study his profile as I wait patiently for his reply.
His hazel green eyes are darker in the dim light of the bar, almost appearing chestnut brown.
His jaw is perfectly squared, as if it were chiseled from marble, the light stubble along it adding just enough ruggedness to the softness of his skin.
His lips are the perfect shape, the bottom slightly fuller than the top, though you can’t tell the difference when he smiles.
My mind instantly wonders what they would feel like against mine.
What that bottom lip would feel like between my teeth.
It’s been so long since I’ve felt a man’s lips against mine. Since I’ve even wanted them.
His throat bobs with a swallow, and my breath catches in my chest. I force my eyes downward, trying to regain my composure, only to lose myself once more in the beauty of his large hand sprawled out against the table.
His palm is wide, and his fingers are long and bold.
One knuckle appears to be healing from an old wound, the others beside it red and raw.
I immediately picture the way his hands would feel on me.
The warmth of them sprawled against the small of my back.
The light scratch of his calluses against my skin.
I want to feel his hands in a way I absolutely shouldn’t.
“Rain,” he says deeply, suddenly pulling me out of my shockingly promiscuous thoughts.
“What?” I ask, totally forgetting what we were talking about.
“I hate the rain.”
“Oh.” Right. Things he hates. “Well, that’s a normal thing to hate.” I clear my mind and force it to think about raindrops falling from gray skies. The pinging of them against a windowpane. And then I realize something. “Wait, you don’t think rain is romantic?”
“Romantically delusional.” He nods.
“How is it delusional? It is romantic.”
“No, it’s not. It’s just rain, and it’s highly inconvenient.”
I try not to roll my eyes. “It is hardly an inconvenience.”
He holds up a fist, opening a finger as he names each item off his list. “Traffic. Hydroplaning. Puddles. Traffic—”
“You can’t count traffic twice.”
“You can if it sucks enough.” A laugh escapes from me, and his deep chuckle joins in as he continues. “Plus, then you’re all wet and stuff when you get to where you’re going. Rain sucks.”
This time, I let the eyeroll live. “You’re wrong.
Rain is very romantic. Being wet together is romantic.
” I put on a show for my next statement.
“A person confessing their love in the rain before they’re both swept up in a passionate kiss in the heat of the moment.
” I point a finger at him. “Very romantic.”
He chuckles again. “You obviously watch too many movies.”
“You don’t watch enough! After our next study session, we’re watching The Notebook. Best romantic rain scene of all time.”
“Definitely not,” he says, falling back in his chair.
“Definitely yes! My goodness,” I sigh as if I’m being overworked. “Obviously the book is better but—”
“I don’t do girl books.”
“Oh my gosh, I’m not telling you to read it, you big baby! I’m just saying it’s better.” He shakes his head, his playful grin giving way as I cross my arms over my chest. “You need some romance in your life,” I continue. “And a woman to get your heart all warm again. The tin man wanted a heart.”
“I’m good,” he chuckles. “Romance free is the way for me.”
I laugh at his ridiculous rhyme. “Okay, fine, no romance for mister anti-love and all things fluffy.”
“All things what?”
“But still—you need, like, a hook up, or a friends with benefits arrangement. Something!”
His brows shoot up in amusement, making me realize how inappropriate that last statement was. My playfulness vanishes, and embarrassment sets in with a warm stroke on my cheeks.
Damn tequila.
“Are you offering?” His voice is low and suggestive and lands deep in my core. His eyes stay on mine, mischief swirling with interest and maybe something else, a seductive smirk on his lips. My breath quickens, and my pulse starts to race. But what surprises me the most is my want to say yes.
It’s not that I’ve never been with a man before.
It’s just that the few times I have were with my high school boyfriend, and there hasn’t been anyone since.
Honestly, it’s kind of surprising I was ever intimate with anyone at all.
Not that I would consider the few sexual experiences I did have as intimate.
They were more like two wrongly fitted people dancing awkwardly at a club they had no business being in.
Anyway, the point is, I haven’t felt this wild hormonal surge burning every inch of me since I was seventeen. And for the life of me, I can’t swallow it back up.
Looking at Jake, though, it’s hard not to let my imagination run wild. He looks like someone who’d change a girl’s whole world with just one touch. Like his hands alone would be enough to wipe me clean and wash me of all my sins.
“Beer?” he offers after too much silence stretches.
“Please,” I sigh.
His eyes linger on mine a minute longer before he disappears into the crowded bar. I take a breath as I regain my composure, readjusting in my seat before he reemerges with four Michelob’s in hand. He passes me two before taking his place across from me.
“I don’t know if I won or lost your weird tricky game, so I bought a round for each possibility,” he says with a wink.
I smile, tickled by the butterflies blooming to life in my belly. I take a sip of the ice-cold beer, thankful for the new flavor. “This is exactly what I drink. I guess you really are good at reading people.”
He grins briefly before taking a sip of his own. “Me too,” he admits.
“Really? I didn’t take you for a light beer guy,” I say, tipping my bottle toward him before setting it down on the table, my forearms crossed along the table’s edge.
“It’s better for my…performance.” He smirks, and I don’t know if it’s the warmth from the house tequila and beer or the way his eyes land on me, but something inside me stirs low. “My running times are always off when I drink heavy beers the night before.”
“Sure.” I grin knowingly. He doesn’t correct me.
He swigs his beer, long and drawn, and I all but finish mine. My head is a bit light with all the desire stirring inside me. I wonder if he feels it, too, or if it’s just the alcohol spinning my mind like a lump of clay on a pottery wheel.