“I work for an investment company,” he explains.
“Like, finance?” I ask through a disappointed grimace. My personal experience with men in finance has left a bitter taste in my mouth. A lingering acidity I’d rather not dive into right now, so I shove away my reaction and replace it with an impassive one.
But Andrew notices anyway. “Yes, is there a problem with that?”
I shrug, brushing off my discontent with indifference. “No.”
He inches closer to me, his warm breath brushing against my cheek. “I think you’re lying,” he comments in a low, drawn-out voice. From here, I can see a ring around his irises. A darker shade of brown that frames his lighter-color eyes. They roam over my face, somehow changing the accusation he threw at me, making it sound darker and less playful.
Those keen, curious eyes flit to my mouth as I ask, “Why would I lie?”
He reaches past my shoulder, bracing his hand against the back of my chair. It shifts him closer to me, and his forearm brushes against my shoulder with a jolt of electricity I almost recoil from before I realize it isn’t a threat. Yet, it isn’t innocent or an accidental slip of hand-eye coordination. It’s deliberate and calculated. “Maybe you don’t want to admit that a man who’s good with his money is attractive?”
“Okay,” I say through a sarcastic tone, a scoff rattling my throat. When the heat of his gaze makes my already flushed face feel hotter, I sidestep it by rolling my teeth over my lower lip.
I watch as he studies the way my mouth twists under the pressure of my teeth. How my tongue follows, leaving behind a glistening sheen in its wake. That Adam’s apple of his bobs, and it does something to my insides I’m familiar with. An impulsive tumble that raises a hiccup at the back of my tongue. I suddenly feel hot. Really hot.
“Want another drink?” Andrew’s voice is dark, authoritative, determined.
I nod, feeling helpless under his steely eyes. But he doesn’t do the usual methodical steps to order a drink. He doesn’t flag someone down, he doesn’t order another round of tequila, he doesn’t tell the bartender to just add it to our tab. At least, not yet. He takes his time, not wanting to break whatever daze or spell has us wrapped up in each other. Where his arm continues to bump against mine. And where my eyes flit to his lips this time, throwing my own gesture of a goading challenge.
“Did you want me to order the drinks?” I offer.
“No.” A single two-letter word that suddenly feels like it weighs a ton. He sets it down between us, landing with a dull thud, waiting for my next move.
“Then—”
He lifts a hand, catching a bartender just as she’s passing by. “Two more tequilas please,” he orders, keeping his eyes on me.
I guess one more round can’t hurt.
CHAPTER FOUR
Grace
“What the hell are you doing?”Andrew slaps my hand away. His words slurred, sleeves unbuttoned and rolled up to his elbows, hair sticking out in different directions. A hazy reminder of our night.
“Paying the tab?” I lift my hand, my credit card wedged between the tips of my middle and index fingers. His own card is gripped between his fingers, and we start a duel of plastic and magnetic strips.
He slaps at my hand again, shooing it away and making him the winner. My card lands on the wooden surface with a clatter. A whimsical giggle bubbles up my throat, and I don’t know if it’s from Andrew’s sloppily moving hands as he slides his card to the bartender, or if it’s because I’m buzzed.
I vaguely remember the additional round of tequila shots we ordered. It was followed by a heated debate over the correct use of the plural form of the word moose. If it’s mooses or meese. Which segued into whether or not the luxury car brand Lexuses are in fact Lexi.
I remember having the best time with Andrew. My date with Gerald? Or was it Henry? Harold! It was Harold. I’d forgotten all about him—apparently—and my sudden wave of memory lossisn’t attributed to the amount of tequila I consumed but to the company by my side.
“It’s this way,” I tell Andrew, shuffling my steps toward my condo. We settled the check after I lost a lazy battle, and we’re heading back to my condo where our cars are parked in the parking garage. Andrew has his suit jacket looped over his arm, and he follows my steps while we leisurely end the night. “You can’t drive like this,” I say, knowing damn well he’s in no condition to get behind the wheel.
“I’m fine. I’ll just sleep it off in my car for a few hours,” he tells me. He lightly punches my arm, his arms swaying as if that minor control of his arms and equilibrium is too much for his drunken state.
“No way,” I argue. “Just crash on my couch for a few hours.”
“Nah,” he assures. “I don’t want to intrude.”
“Don’t flatter yourself. Your presence isn’t as imposing as you might think.”
He does a gesturing motion. His hand cups the back of his neck, craning his head up toward the sky. We both peer in the general direction of my building a block away. His feet shuffle underneath him, dithering between the path that’ll either provide a soft, warm couch or a cold, uncomfortable seat and a neck cramp.
“Are you sure?”
