When we’re back in the car, Caspian fumbles so badly with his seatbelt that he nearly strangles himself.
“Smooth,” I say, barely holding back a laugh.
“Can we not talk about it?” he mutters, finally clicking the belt with way more force than necessary.
“But I want to.” I’m already grinning. “I really, really want to.”
He groans and sinks into his seat like a man hoping the upholstery will swallow him whole. “Did that really just happen?”
“So many delightful things just happened that I need you to be more specific,” I say cheerfully.
“I asked for his number and he…” Caspian’s voice trails off. I’m happy to supply the rest.
“…and he said, ‘Sure, I’ll scribble it on your ego when it deflates.’”
Caspian lets out a strangled noise. “I don’t have a chance in hell,” he sighs. “Usually men give me their numbers without asking. Now I ask and got… burned.”
“Exactly,” I nod solemnly. “He’s perfect for you.”
“Well, obviously he didn’t think so”, he says in despair, like he’s Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet just turned him down. I can already imagine him pacing his lakeside flat later as if it was Pemberley.
“He was flirting with you,” I say.
Caspian looks at me in disbelief. “Were we even at the same table? He called me Mr. Hilfiger.”
“Yeah, but he looked intrigued when he said it,” I grin. “But can we talk about the fact you blushed?” I ask, beaming. “I didn’t even know your face could do that. It was so adorable.”
Caspian flips me off without looking at me. “I thought I’d spare you, but since you’re being so mean, I’m telling you. Your mom bought Noah a vintage hat stand and a duck lamp yesterday at the antique auction.”
“What? Why?” I groan.
“Aren’t those critical for four-year-olds?” Caspian says gleefully. “She mentioned something about an early Christmas present.”
“It’s August.”
“Vintage bargains don’t care about the calendar, Cole.” He smirks, clearly satisfied with his petty revenge.
I sigh dramatically. “You leave me no choice. The next time you blush because Antonio breathes in your direction, I’m taking a picture. And Caspian? I’m going to frame it.”
XADEN
A handful of regulars are scattered along the bar, nursing longnecks and shooting the shit. Johnny Cash croons in the background about walking the line.
I order a whisky, take it to a corner table, and make myself part of the furniture. The half-curious, half-hostile looks from the regulars roll off me — trucker caps pulled low, grease still under their nails, one pair of eyes lingering too long before shifting back to the game on TV. Same as always.
Their conversation drifts down the bar, as familiar as the smell of stale peanuts.
“Don’t know what I’m payin’ those property taxes for. Still got the same damn potholes out front.”
“Well, at least they finally fixed the streetlight.”
“Working here’s a goddamn Groundhog Day,” the bartender mutters, collecting empties from nearby tables.
“Mickey in?” I ask, casual. She jerks a thumb toward a door near the pool table, giving me an appreciative once-over when I walk past her.
Mickey is behind a desk, hunched over invoices. His scarred brow twitches when he sees me. “Well, shit. If it isn’t Eli Bailey’s boy.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Can I come in?”
