“I was there on Fridays at 3:00 p.m, not Saturday after midnight. He and his friends would get together once a week and talk about all the important stuff going on in the world: MLB spring training. Whether there should be more paid holidays. WhichJurassic Parkmovie is best.”
“The only correct answer is the original one,” Maverick says. “I’m not a film critic, but I think society can collectively agree that number three is a disgrace to the movie industry as a whole. It wasn’t even believable.”
“But a theme park with dinosaurs is?”
“Billionaires do weird shit, Hartwell.”
“That’s my dad’s opinion too.”
“I like the guy already. Did you participate in these spirited debates?”
“Nope. I ate my cheese pizza, drank my chocolate milk, and listened while they talked for ninety minutes. Gosh, I haven’t been there in years. I wonder if it’s still standing.”
“Who knew you’d be in for a bit of nostalgia when you trudged down here after an ax-throwing defeat? You might end up having fun.”
“With Hudson, probably. Not you,” I joke, but my mind flashes back to the hotel room in Chicago.
Maverick, telling me hedoesn’t share.
Maverick, with eyes as dark as coal and his hand around my throat.
Maverick, sayingthat’s so good.
There’s not enough alcohol in this bar to get the sounds he makes when he comes out of my head. To forget how those tattoos look in the moonlight and between my legs.
“You okay?” he asks roughly, like he’s thinking about that night too.
“Fine.” I look at the liquor selection instead of him. “Do you think this place has olives?”
“If they don’t, I brought some.” Maverick digs around his black coat and pulls out a glass jar.
I stare at the jar then up at him. “Where did you get those? Do you carry olives in your pocket?”
“I popped into the bodega on our way here and grabbed some.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Because I remembered you said you like martinis. Can’t make a good drink without a garnish.” He sets the jar down and nudges it toward me. “Take them home with you.”
I pick up the jar and run my thumb over the label. It’s the expensive brand, the one I splurge on once a month when I want to spoil myself.
Knowing he didn’t pick the cheap ones makes my heart skip a beat.
“This is for me?” I ask softly.
“Yeah.” Maverick frowns. “I didn’t think it was that big of a deal when I bought them. It’s not a marriage proposal or anything. You can throw them at me if you want. I wouldn’t?—”
“Thank you,” I interrupt him, and his eyes widen. The corner of his mouth turns up in a smile, and the dimple on his right cheek makes me blush. “I appreciate this. It’s very considerate of you.”
He pretends to tip a hat. “You’re very welcome.”
“I’ll take a gin martini,” I tell the bartender when he comes over, and I hold the olives tight to my chest. “Please.”
“Three beers and a water for me,” Maverick says.
He pulls out his wallet and lays down a couple of twenties, overpaying for the cheap bottles by a mile, and we wait for our drinks.
I tap my fingers against my thigh. He leans his forearms on the ledge of the bar and stares at the football game playing on the television in the corner. It’s quiet, and it makes me anxious.
