then leaves.
Andrew sees him walking up,
holding steady as if it’s taking every ounce of him not to react.
His shoulders are pulled tight.
He holds there a beat too long,
then pushes off the bar.
He doesn’t greet Ben,
doesn’t look in his direction.
Ben leans into the bar with a cocky head tilt.
“Another one of those for my girl,
“if it ain’t too much trouble.”
Andrew’s whole body’s cursing?—
snatching a glass,
pouring fast,
eyes burning a hole into the bartop.
Then, as he pushes the drink toward Ben,
he finally looks at me.
His gaze is fucking smoldering.
His brow lifts like?—
push one more button, baby. I fuckin’ dare you.
Andfuck. I hate how he can make my skin flush with only his eyes.
As the crowd moves between us,
the gala blurs to the background.
Just me, him,
and Frank Sinatra through the saxophone.
Ben grabs the drink,
smirking and glancing between us. “That pour looked personal. You good, boss?” he asks Andrew.
Andrew shakes his head. “Don’t fuckin’ talk to me, man,” he mutters, tossing a towel behind him as he walks away.
Ben chuckles, amusement all over his face on his way back to me. “Yo, he’s heated.”
I smile and take the drink, take a sip,
