He’s also staring at me like I’m about to pop his cherry right on this desk.
“Okay,” I say, “this is awkward, right?”
He doesn’t say anything.
“How about this?”I say.“Let’s get a drink.”
The way he freezes makes me think I might have made a mistake.
“Just a drink,” I say, holding my hands up—I don’t know why, but I guess so he thinks I’m not going to assault his honor or ravish him or whatever he thinks is going to happen.“Besides, I’ve got an idea about your project, and you can do some research.”
He has to swallow before he says a surprisingly scratchy “Okay.”
I grab my stuff, and I let Sam lead the way out of the WISP offices.Robin is at the desk, glaring at us.
“I’m headed out,” I say.“Thanks for your help tonight, Robin.”
“If you’re done,” Robin says, “maybe we could get something to eat—”
“Not tonight, sorry.Sam and I have plans.”
I didn’t mean for it to sound the way it did, and I see the flush mottle Sam’s neck, but to my surprise, he turns back toward Robin and says, “Boyfriend perks.I get dibs.”
He’s actually kind of bitchy about it, which: one, not even on my fucking radar; and two, un-fucking-believably amazing.
It’s hard not to laugh as I follow Sam out into the night.
“You want a ride?”I ask, and now it seems like everything I say has another meaning, and for some reason, my face gets hot.“I mean, we can drive together—”
“No, thanks,” Sam says.“I’ll drive myself.”
“Sure.Have you been to Drawbar?”
Sam shakes his head.
“It’s not far—”
“I can find it,” he says, and he breaks into an easy lope.
There goes my future-fake-boyfriend.Literally running away from me.
On the drive over to Drawbar, I analyze the situation from every possible angle.It’s like math.Or maybe science.I wish I could say that to Emery to see his head explode.But the conclusion, any way I try to look at it, is that this is inevitably going to blow up in my fucking face.
Eventually, I add.Eventuallyit will blow up in my fucking face.
It just has to explodeafterthe fundraiser.
Drawbar is a cute little mixed bar not far from the college.It’s mostly het, but there are enough gay guys that it can make a nice change from the meat market at the Pretty Pretty.It’s got a brick veneer and its name in marquee lights, and inside, it hits the sweet spot between a college dive bar and somewhere an adult might actually want to go on the weekend.
Sam’s waiting by the door when I get in, putting away his ID.He sees me notice, and he shoves the wallet into his pocket.
I choose not to say anything.Not yet, anyway.
It’s a Saturday night, and it’s busy and loud—more so than usual, as a matter of fact, because tonight, the Sigma Sigma frat is having some kind of event here.Somehow, Sam and I squeeze into a spot at the end of the bar, and I flag down the woman behind the stick.She looks about ten years older than me and like she wishes she were wearing an eyepatch.When she gets close enough, I ask for a Blue Moon and a Fat Tire.
Sam’s looking at me with his cop eyes as the bartender moves away.
I laugh.“I’m not stalking you.It’s what you order when we go to St.Taffy’s.”
