She slides her silver Mercedes into an open spot across the street from the bar, smiling at me sideways. “Then you don’t know what love is. Don’t worry. I’ll show you.”
I maneuver myself out of her car, feeling like I have too much leg for the thing. I have to adjust my pants when I finally make it vertical. Sloane drove me by my apartment on the way to the restaurant so I could change out of my workout gear. I put on an old pair of jeans, a plain gray T-shirt, and my nicest Nikes. I also slapped on deodorant and cologne to cover what sweat scent I could, and dodged back out before the guys could get back from the gym. I don’t want to tell them what I’ve done or where I’m going. Who I’m going with. I don’t want to do that to Sloane.
The building is plain on the outside. It looks like an office except for the large, blocky letters spelling out Wurst Bar in gold and blue across the front. I follow Sloane inside, immediately hit with the smell of bread and beer when the door opens. It’s dimly lit under high ceilings with large exposed beams running the length of the room. Long wood tables with matching benches mirror the beams, spanning to the back where a bar dominates the wall with glowing bottles and neon lights in a language I can’t read.
The place is packed. It buzzes with the clink of glass and endless chatter. A huge TV is set into one wall. It’s broadcasting football highlights, probably more of the endless coverage of the upcoming Draft, and I immediately want to leave. I’m about to tell Sloane I can’t stay when she takes my hand in hers and pulls me toward a door on the right side of the room. She’s taking me away from the TV. I follow her mutely.
The door leads outside to a patio area with brilliant green grass, more long tables, and a gold and green canopy filled with humming heat lamps. The late evening light filters through the canopy giving the interior a mellow golden glow.
“I thought we could eat outside,” she tells me, releasing my hand. A small gust of wind rolls through her hair, pressing the strands to her chest. “Get away from the crowd and the TV.”
“Yeah, that’d be good.”
She smiles as she pulls her hair over her shoulder, out of the reach of the wind.
Some strange part of me wishes I had done it for her.
On our way to the tent, Sloane stops at a small white shed covered in ornate black writing. A girl in full beer garden costume smiles at her sweetly, asking for her order. She gets us a couple of beers, handing them to me as she adds on two massive, curved pretzels.
“I got it,” I tell her, looking for a spot to set down the beer so I can reach my wallet.
Sloane waves me away. “No, the agency has it. This is a business dinner. Let daddy pay for it.”
I frown, feeling like a dick. “I’m sorry about that.”
“Don’t be. You’re not the only one to bring it up. Happens all the time.”
“That makes me feel even worse.”
“You’ll find a way to make it up to me someday.” She picks up the pretzels, nodding to the tent. “Do you mind if we sit under a heat lamp? I didn’t bring a jacket and the wind is chilly.”
“Lead the way.”
The patio isn’t empty. Couples and groups are spaced out over the tables. Sloane chooses a spot toward the back, under a lamp and far from the crowd.
“We’re gonna talk about it, aren’t we?” I ask, slowly sitting down across from her in our secluded corner.
She shrugs. “There’s not much to say, but I think we have to say it anyway.”
“Didn’t we say it in the office?”
“While we were naked,” she reminds me dully. “I think a little distance and a layer of clothing is a good buffer, and it won’t hurt to say it again.”
“We can’t sleep together,” I supply, getting it out of the way.
“No, we can’t. It’s too risky for both of us. And right now, this close to the Draft, surprises can hurt you.”
“Got it. We won’t do it again.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
I lean forward on the table, taking a sip of my beer as I look her over with interest. “Now, about those scraps…”
I love it when she smiles. When her pink lips curve into that wicked grin that’s real and honest and ready. “What do you want to know?”
“Let’s start with what you have on me. How many siblings do I have?”
“None,” she answers immediately. “You’re an only child to Donna and Lono Domata. Your mom is from Idaho originally. Your dad is a Hawaiian native.”
“All true. Now you.”
“I have a sister. Ellen. She’s younger. She’s studying abroad in Italy.” Her smile slips a little as her hands pick at the salt on her pretzel. “My dad you know. He grew up in L.A. No surprises there. My mom’s name is Bridge, but she tells everyone its Bri. She’s from Louisiana. She came to L.A. to be an actress when she was seventeen. It didn’t work out, but my dad did so she’s happy.”