Andrew Cohen. One-fourth of the Cohen siblings, one of which is Teeny, my best friend. And being the youngest, Andrew always seems to carry with him the buoyancy that comes with the lack of responsibility while adding on the baggage of always having someone watch over his shoulder and correct his mistakes.
He tucks his hands into his pocket where the bottom hem of his blazer gives a drapery-like effect. I see his watch glint off the overhead lights past the sleeve of his shirt. Such a small expression of assurance. Combined with a slight saunter as he steps closer to me, he creates a guise over him, shielding away the image of Teeny’s brother and putting in its place Andrew fucking Cohen.
“What are you doing here?”
“I was, um, on a…I was having dinner,” I vaguely explain, though given that we’re standing in front of a restaurant, it seems obvious. A wave of diffidence tumbles through me,making me clumsy and unsure, but I plow through it, reminding myself the date from hell isn’t something to be embarrassed about. If anything, Harold should be embarrassed for treating me like the next candidate in a meat market lineup. Andrew eyes me with a bit of skepticism, but I brush past it by asking, “You?”
“I had a work thing,” he tells me, his answer carrying the same vagueness I did.
We stay quiet, lingering in this slightly awkward silence, when Andrew cuts into it with a charming laugh.
“I just saw you last year. Why does it feel like forever?”
I mentally fact-check his timeline, confirming that Teeny’s wedding was almost a year ago. It’s odd how much can change in a year. That boyish charisma he wore so proudly in his early twenties disappeared long ago. I noticed it at the wedding. How his black tux and slicked back hair, and even the calla lily pinned to his lapel, instantly replaced the college boy I met over a decade ago.
“Yeah,” I confirm. “It was your sister’s wedding. I guess the year’s just…dragging.”
“You look great,” he comments, eyeing me from head to toe. Though I didn’t opt for anything risqué or revealing, what I chose to wear tonight looks nice, somewhat modest. I picked a deep navy dress with short-capped sleeves and a hem that reaches just below my knees. The back has an opening, exposing a sliver of my shoulder blades, and that small show of skin has me feeling confident and sexy. I put some effort into tonight. I took the time to do my makeup and hair, and I even shaved my legs. Too bad it was all for nothing.
“So do you.” It’s not even a lie or a knee-jerk response to his compliment. He looks good. Annoyingly good. Especially his hair. It’s thick and wavy, pushed back with the kind of fade I find irresistible in most men.
“So, was this dinner thing a date? Or…” His sharp jawline softens for a moment, his subtle five o’clock shadow rolling with the curves of his errant smirk. The corners of his eyes, the tawny color of honey, crinkle, making the small mole below the tip of his brow disappear in the wrinkles.
I smile, the mask I put on to hide my embarrassment slipping just the tiniest bit. “How did you know?”
He shrugs. “Just an educated guess.” I roll my eyes, just as he adds, “And since you’re leaving the restaurant alone, I’m going to make another educated guess and say it didn’t go well?”
I cast aside my attempt to save face. I peer up at him, noticing how far back my neck has to crane to meet his eyes. “It was a blind date.”
He grimaces. “Do I want to hear about it?”
“I don’t know,” I answer, sarcasm edging its way into my voice. “Do you know what a ‘wife list’ is?”
His grimace deepens. “Do I want to know?”
“It’s probably best if you don’t.”
“His loss.”
He throws it out there so aimlessly, I don’t know whether to take it as a compliment or a show of sympathy. I choose the former and say, “That’s probably the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all night.”
Pity lines the creases on his forehead. “I’m sorry,” he offers.
“Nothing you need to apologize for, Andrew.” I pat his chest, letting him off the hook, just as I see my car pull up out of the corner of my eye. I grip the cash in my hand to slip to the valet when Andrew stops me.
“You want to grab a drink? It could help you forget about this ‘wife list.’ You can complain all you want about your blind date.” His thumb is pointed toward the entrance to the restaurant where I saw a sleek bar surrounded by more stiff suits and polished footwear.
The valet holds open the door for me, and it’s my answer to Andrew’s offer. A sign I should say “no, thank you” and go home, wash off this night with a hot shower and some warm cuddles from Buster. I push aside the temptation to take him up on his offer and walk toward the driver’s side.
“Maybe another time,” I tell him, throwing a cheeky smile over my shoulder. “I’m sure I’ll have plenty of dates I need to drown in alcohol in the near future.”
Andrew smirks and nods, taking a step back to wait for his car. I slip in, watching how he stands there, his hands in his pockets and his shoulders hunched with an air of stress settling over him. I start to wonder if his offer for a drink is for him just as much as it is for my own need to erase the last hour of my night. Maybe a nightcap can’t hurt. One drink. How much damage could that do?
I unbuckle my seat belt and open my door. “Hey, Andrew.”
He looks up, and his eyes round with curiosity.
“I changed my mind.”
