Hanna cleared the whiskey simmering in her throat and turned to face him, tentatively asking, “Milo?”
“Okay, cool,” he returned. “I thought that was you, but I was afraid to creep on a stranger.”
He laughed and set his own half-drained glass next to hers as she wondered how long he’d been perched in the corner of the dive.
Hanna took a slow breath, the pleasant buzz she’d curated suddenly harder to think through.
She’d seen him in the occasional Instagram post over the years, lingering at the edges of Warriors games and movie nights. He was a childhood friend of Sara's fiancé, Matty, and the two had reunited when they both moved back up to the bay. If Sara's reports were reliable, he was as chronically single as he was devastatingly charming.
And Sara’s reports were always reliable.
Milo’s lips tilted into a lethal grin as Hanna stared for a moment too long.
Some kind of government entity should regulate that jawline, she thought. It cannot be legal to wield something that sharp in public.
“Sara said you’d be at the closest, grossest bar, and lo and behold.”
Hanna flinched. “I bet she did.” She watched as he sized her up with rich hazel-green eyes, his gaze bouncing between her and the final whispers of amber whiskey in her glass.
“Bourbon or scotch girl?”
She shrugged. “Right now? Or stranded on a desert island, and I can only bring one?”
He gestured to the glass. “Right now.”
“Bourbon. Maker’s. Keeping it simple, but I’ve actually been into Japanese whiskeys lately.”
She wasn’t sure why she felt the need to tell him that, but then again, she was three, maybe four whiskeys in before dinner, so it was harmless, considering.
Something in his eyes lit up.
“Hibiki?” he asked.
“Yeah,” she mumbled, feeling a little less mysterious than she’d aimed for.
Hanna angled herself, keen to see more of his face, her legs swinging over one another in what she hoped was effortlessly casual and not a prelude to slipping off the stool.
“They’re having a moment right now. All the rage in the city,” he said.
“As much as I love small talk, I gotta ask. Why are you hiding here? Sara’s mom get handsy and run you off?” Hanna looked around, her eyes landing on no fewer than seven geriatric men glued to sticky tables as they watched the singular television mounted in the corner. “Not exactly a hip destination.”
She wouldn’t have blamed him. Cami could be a lot for anyone, but especially a young, handsome man when she was three buttery chards to the wind.
Milo sighed. “I’m not supposed to say.”
Jesus, the dimples.
Hanna hung her head forward. Of course, he was the designated groomsman sent to find her.
“Sara sent you.”
“She did.”
“She knew I’d be too early,” Hanna mumbled.
“She did. And she wanted to make sure you had a ride.” Milo pointed to her glass again, the gesture landing like an accusation.
“Thoughtful.” She clicked her tongue.
