“Babe, you look great. Don’t sweat it.”
It’s the tenth time he’s said it, and like the first nine, I don’t believe him. “I just wish I would have dressed better.”
Curran laughs, stopping at the next light. “It’s a dive bar on a Thursday in sub-zero weather. If anything, you’re overdressed.”
I tug on my shirt, a green silk button-down. My pants are tweed, and my shoes more practical than cute. “It’s all I have,” I offer, apologetically.
“And it’s more than good enough. You look hot.” He hooks an arm over my neck and pulls me in for a kiss, but then the light turns and he has to stomp on the gas.
I pull down the visor again. My hair is so messy. Why is it so messy? Because of the crazy sex you had following your shower with Curran, I remind myself.
Okay. But considering how busy and stressed I’ve been, we both were due for some crazy sex.
I pull on the strands, trying to settle them and wishing I’d remembered to pack a blow dryer in my overnight bag.
“Why are you nervous?”
I shut the visor, conceding that my hair is a lost cause. “I’m meeting your family.”
“Yeah, for beer and wings.” His eyes glance up, checking to make sure the rookie cop watching us is still behind us. “It’s not exactly Thanksgiving.”
No, it’s not, and in a way it makes me sad. Although Curran and I commit every free moment to each other, I can’t be positive we’re actually committed. No, that’s not exactly true. I’m very committed to him, but I can’t be certain the feeling is mutual.
I sigh. Committed. That’s a funny word considering I already know I love him.
He pulls into a large lot lined with deep cracks and littered with chunks of asphalt. Most of the vehicles are trucks exactly like his with the exception of the I BRAKE FOR PUSSY and HONK IF YOU’RE HORNY bumper stickers decorating the others.
The rookie parks in the row behind us, positioning his sedan so he can see us and the front door. I don’t move, waiting for Curran to come around and help me navigate over a particularly large pothole. “Wow. The winter’s been brutal on this lot,” I say when he reaches for me.
“Oh, no, Merve’s always looks like this,” he says. “The owner is a cheap bastard, but this place has the best wings in West Philly.”
The closer we get to the front door, the more I wonder if these famous wings are worth a serious case of hepatitis. Curran wasn’t joking when he said the bar wasn’t the most modern or well-cared-for building. Old green paint peels away from the wood storefront, and the surrounding window frame is grimy with dirt and sections of rust.
He motions to the peeling paint before reaching for the door handle. “Hey, that’s the same color as your shirt. How ’bout that—you match Merve’s.”
His hold on my hand tightens when I try to bolt. “Come on, babe. There’s my brother.”
I can’t see more than his back. Merve’s loud atmosphere is lined with wall-to-wall flannel-clad bodies. Yet as I peek over Curran’s shoulder, I realize there’s no missing his brother. A titan of a man carrying two pitchers jerks his head toward the rear. Curran weaves us to the right and left, around what seems to be the open casting call for the next Deliverance movie.
His brother reaches the large booth first, where a beautiful young woman is sitting, her long, springy curls cascading down her light blue sweater and willowy frame. Curran greets his brother, the two of them clasping hands in a friendly shake before Curran leans over the table to exchange kisses with the young woman. “Hey, Sofe. How you doin’, kid?” Curran says to her.
“I’m well, Curran.” Her eyes dance my way. “How are you?”
“Good. I want you to meet someone,” he tells them. Instead of introducing us, he turns back to me. “Want to sit, babe?”