The crowd is starting to pick up, and someone accidentally bumps into Wes from behind. He takes the hint and ushers us over to the tables Sophie put together, with a hand resting just above my ass. He pulls out a chair, and gestures for me to sit. I drop down in the wooden chair and Wes surprisingly takes the seat next to me.
Maverick strides up to the table and flips the end chair around, plopping down, and resting his forearms on the back of it.
“Chase is going to cover for me for a couple hours so I can hang. But don’t be surprised if I get up and start working anyway. I can’t help it,” he says.
We all order drinks and start to socialize. Beau talks about his parents’ practice he’ll be taking over, and his move from the city. Lincoln tells stories from their childhood that make me laugh so hard, my vodka soda goes up my nose.
About a half an hour later, everyone’s got a good buzz going, and having a good time. Wes asks me something, but I don't catch what he said.
“What?” I speak up over the noise of the crowd and music in the background.
He turns toward me in his chair, grabs the bottom lip of my seat and effortlessly scoots me all the way over to him. He spreads his legs wide, and leans into me. Brushing my hair off my shoulder, he speaks directly into my ear. “I’m asking if you want another drink.”
His breath skates over my ear and neck, making goosebumps break out over my entire body.
“Yes, please,” I reply in the most even tone I can manage. I turn my head slightly so our noses almost touch, and lock eyes with him.
He dips his chin once, quickly glances at my mouth, then scoots his chair back to get my drink. I look across the table at Sophie, who is waggling her eyebrows at me already, and I fan myself with my hand dramatically. Wes returns with my drink—the second and last of the night. If I have any more, I’ll get sleepy drunk, and not fun drunk.
Wes sits down sideways again, and I instinctively turn into him. He's man-spreading, with my legs between his. He sets my drink on the table beside me.
“Thank you,” I say softly. I don’t really know how to behave around him right now. He’s acting like a completely different person.
“Of course.”
I look down at his arms, admiring his tattoos, and trace one of them with my nail.
“Do your tattoos have any meaning?” I’ve always wondered what they are, and what they’re of.
“Some,” he says, “Some I just liked.”
“This one’s beautiful.” I point at the red flower that covers the top of his hand.
“Lilah’s birth flower, poppies,” he replies.
He leans in closer, resting his elbows on his knees, and gently cups his palms on the back of my knees. My legs go numb from the sensation, and my heart rate picks up.
“Maybe I should get a tattoo,” the words tumble from my mouth out of nowhere.
He smiles, and it’s carefree. It’s as if his couple of beers have loosened him up, and he’s finally just doing what he wants.
“Of what?”
“I’m not sure. Something small and cute,” I say shyly.
“Like you?” he responds, thenwinks.
I thought I got butterflies when he winked at me yesterday while playing with Delilah. Now, sitting this closeand intimate, a swarm of them just took flight. I feel it all the way down to my toes.
“Yeah, exactly,” I smirk back, feigning confidence.
A laugh bubbles out of him. His smile is flirty and charming. It makes my stomach dip.
We continue talking, lost in our own little world. We talk about Delilah, his shop and how hard it was to start his business. He asks about my writing, and my parents. I talk about them fondly, instead of heartbroken for once.
We talk about anything and everything. The conversation flows so easily, and I laugh. A lot. As the night goes on, Wesley gets more forward with his touches. He cups the top of my calves with both hands, and traces circles now and then on the backs of my thighs.
I’m reenacting something funny Delilah said the other day, when I hear the nostalgic and unmistakable first chords ofMr. Brightside.Sophie and I whip our heads to one another and lock eyes as she stands abruptly.
