But it’s not going to happen, so I decide to play a game with myself. Once I make it clear as crystal I’m going home alone, we will see how long he sticks around. I’m a little irritated at myself for being so cynical, but after the speed dating debacle, I think I’ve earned the right.
Nestling into my skepticism is a lot easier than acknowledging the zing of excitement shooting through my veins. The relief over having eyes on Charlie. After spending a week convinced I wouldn’t see him again, this is like finding out it’s Saturday when you woke up thinking it was Monday.
We find a space at the end of the bar. Happy hour in this city is a free for all, and most of the younger Madison Avenue work crowd has migrated thisaway to wet their whistle. A lot of unbuttoned button-downs and loosened ties, mingled with service industry peeps who just ended a day shift. That’s the beauty of New York City. A garbage man can sit beside a billionaire at the bar, and for that window of time, they’re equals. I’ve waitressed here and there myself to fill a few financial gullies while I put myself through junior college, so I’ve made a study of men on bar stools. Common ground conversations usually involve the best place to get pizza or heroes, classic rock or sports. This far north of Wall Street, the best way to get ignored at the bar would be to bring up politics or money.
I love the buzz of a busy, dimly lit bar. Being part of something, yet anonymous, all at the same time. It doesn’t feel like the real world, which is how I found the courage to approach Charlie all those months ago while basketball and beer commercials raged on television. I shouldn’t feel at all nostalgic that Charlie and I are back in that same atmosphere together, but as we squeeze into the tiny sliver of bar space, our eyes meet . . . and I have this wild notion he’s feeling it, too.
My body likes being in close proximity with Charlie’s very much. My nipples pinch to tight peaks, mere inches from his chest. Has he always been so broad shouldered? Has he always been so much taller than me? We’ve been horizontal for a good chunk of our acquaintance, so it must have slipped my notice.
“Um . . .” I search for the bartender, hoping he’ll take our drink orders and break the silence, but he’s tending to another group. “I guess we should just acknowledge this is awkward, right?” I murmur beside his ear. “And go from there.”
Charlie’s laugh puffs out and rolls down my neck. “Acknowledged.” He props a foot on the step beneath the bar, putting me inside the cubby of his thigh. But he does it so casually, I can’t decide if he’s flirting or getting comfortable. Either way, I can feel his leg heat on my hip now, and that’s really hard to ignore. “While we’re putting everything on the table,” he says, giving me the eyes, “I didn’t want things to end. I still don’t.”
Disappointment is like staples sinking into my skin. That was easy. I already won the game. “We’re not going home together, Charlie. If that’s why you followed me in here . . . I’m sorry. But I’m going to cut this short.”
“I followed you in here because you looked upset. I didn’t like it.” A line flashes between his brows, as if he’d even surprised himself. “And I missed seeing you. I saw you every day for a month, Ever. Did you think it would be so easy to go from—from . . .” He waves a hand around. “Ever at full volume, to switching off the whole damn sound system?”
“I didn’t think about it.” I manage to push the words past tingling lips. Everything is tingling. “I-I’m sorry I didn’t think about it.”
God, he looks almost angry. I’ve never seen him anything but lovable, charming or horny. “Was it so easy for you?”
No. No. I can’t say the word out loud, though, because we miss each other for different reasons. He misses the sure-thing hookup, and I’ve stopped pretending that there weren’t moments where I wished for more between us. More he wasn’t willing to give. Now we are in some kind of stare down in the middle of a stale dive bar, he is irritated with me and it makes no sense. Hadn’t he helped me craft the no-drama rules of our arrangement? Thankfully, the bartender chooses that moment to finally make an appearance.
“What’ll it be?”
“The IPA,” we say at the same time.
“The summer one,” I add, so I won’t get some fanciful notion about our identical beer selection meaning something. “Is that fine for you?”
“Yeah.” Charlie swipes a hand through his hair as the bartender walks away. “Look, let’s just get the remaining awkward out of the way, all right?”
“You should always clear the air before drinking,” I mumble.
“Agreed.” Those blue eyes pin me where I stand. “Why’d you call it off? You said someone close to you pulled a Ghost of Mistresses Future. What did that mean?”
The bartender drops off our beers and waits. Gaze still glued to me, Charlie reaches into his front pocket to extricate his wallet . . . and I blow it. I look down, eager to see his hand in the vicinity of his lap. If that makes me a sick puppy, so be it. Whenever my imagination isn’t providing, my go-to porn is men . . . handling their business solo-style. Charlie did it for me once. I almost broke his neck afterward, fingers clinging to his hair while he went down on me, I was so hot and bothered.
When I manage to drag my gaze upward, he knows exactly what I’m thinking, too. And my eyes don’t need to travel south again to know how his body is expressing satisfaction. The guy could get hard in a sandstorm at knifepoint.
Charlie tosses some bills onto the bar. “Ever, I won’t push again. I won’t even bring up how . . . compatible we are. In bed. Or in the hallway. Or on the counter. Or—”
“I get the picture.”
His eyes crinkle at the corners. “But if you ask for it, cutie?” He licks his lips, so they’re wet when they graze my ear. “If you say, fuck me, Charlie, I will drop whatever I’m doing. I will get between those legs if I have to kill, steal or sacrifice to get there. And you’ll be a sweating, moaning, crying tangle of sex in the sheets by the time it’s over. I know you don’t doubt me, because I’ve done it. I’ve done it.” He steps back and winks at me. “Three words. I just needed you to know.”
“Consider me warned.” Son of an undertaker. I’m dead where I stand. No. Pull it together, Ever. If I can make it through to the other side of this gutter-mouthed seduction, I can make it through, like, jumping out of an airplane without a parachute. Or the opera. “That’s good to know. And yes, you’re very good at tangling me up into a sex puddle.”
Disorderly Conduct (The Academy #1)
Tessa Bailey's books
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