“You would presume correctly,” he replied with awink, and I responded with an eye roll. His eyes were ever so slightly glassy as he held my stare for a second, causing his expression to soften. “So... do you wanna talk about it?”
“About all the fun you’ve been having this evening? Pfft. I’m good actually, but thanks!” I said, swiping my drink out of his hand.
“No, about...” He paused, picking his words carefully. “... him.”
I threw a fake laugh in his direction. “I really, really, really don’t.”
The last thing I wanted to think or talk about was William. I was miserable but somehow, despite the sky-high levels of inebriation I was reaching, keeping it together.
“OK.” He nodded resolutely and leaned over my shoulder to talk to the bartender. A few moments later, a fresh G&T in hand, he resumed his previous position of staring me down until I finally cracked and broke the silence.
“What did you think of me when we first met?” The question was metallic on my tongue, like something I knew I shouldn’t try but just wanted to see how it tasted.
He drummed his fingers on the bar top while his other hand swirled the ice in his glass. “Sure you want to know?”
The crowd behind him cheered in drunken delight as the DJ moved a spotlight to hit a disco ball above the dance floor, causing shiny white dots to spin aroundthe room. Turning the party into an alcohol-filled snow globe.
“Uh-huh,” I replied, regretting my question, not knowing if I could handle more evaluation from men whose opinions I valued.
He cleared his throat and said, “I thought you were a little Goody Two-shoes.”
I burst out laughing, spitting a half sip of my drink onto the floor.
“Who even uses that phrase anymore?” I said, wiping my wet mouth with the back of my hand.
He held his hand up in defence. “Hey, private school education isn’t what it used to be!”
I laughed again, staring at my feet. “And what about now?” I asked, unwilling to look him in the eye.
“Hmmm,” he mused, forcing my gaze up to his. He pursed his lips for a second, glancing at his drink and then back to me with a devilish, open-mouthed smirk. “Now I know you better. I know you’re not nearly as good as you pretend to be.” His dimple appeared and disappeared in an instant.
My stomach flip-flopped over itself as I tried to stop my cheeks from burning, mouth opening and closing with an attempt at a cool response. I settled for taking a huge gulp of my drink instead and shifting on my heels. I felt the alcohol reach my system instantly, the numbing sensation flowing through my body down to my legs.
“So...?” Bancroft asked expectantly, burning a hole in my head with his locked gaze.
“So, what?” I sipped at my icy drink and shivered as the cold liquid trickled down my throat.
“So, what about me?” he prompted. A hint of nervousness flashed through his blue eyes but was blinked away in an instant. His five o’clock–shadowed throat bobbed as he took another sip of his drink. “What did you think of me at first?”
I glanced at the tightening fingers around his glass. “I thought you were all gin, no tonic,” I said as soberly as I could, straightening my posture for emphasis.
He huffed a laugh and glanced down at his nearly finished drink. “And now?”
I tried to think of anything I could actually say out loud, but the only thing I could put into words was “And now I want to dance.”
I slammed my glass onto the bar and pulled his tailored arm toward the heaving crowd, using both my hands to wrap fully around his forearm. His concerned eyes stayed on me as I bounced through our sequin-clad colleagues. My eyes drooped closed as the music swelled and I flung my arms around him; with my highest heels on we were almost cheek to cheek.
The move, in my drunken logic, had been a good one to avoid an awkward conversation, but in making it I’d managed to get physically closer to him than I’d ever been before. It shocked me momentarily, to see his face so close up. The end-of-day stubble on his jaw, the subtle spattering of freckles on his cheeks, the bow of his full lips: features that were usually eclipsedby his penetrating eyes. I archived them, promising to pay more attention to each of them in the future. I felt his large hands smooth around my waist and grip me—in hindsight, probably to keep me upright. As everything else spun and blurred, my glassy eyes could only focus on him. His hands on me felt like a joyride; we were spinning with no direction in mind, just trying to not crash.
“You’re so pretty,” I slurred, scrunching my brow. “Everyone calls you handsome, but I think you’re pretty.”
He laughed. “You’re not so bad yourself.” He lifted a hand and wiped the hair from my sweat-laced forehead. “But I think you paying me a genuine compliment is a strong indicator that you’ve had too much to drink.”
Even when we were friends, our conversations always skirted the edges of seriousness.
I ignored his assumption. I could have a million more drinks! I was the Queen of Mistletoe Mojitos and nothing would ever stop me!
“What’s it like having eeeeveryone in the company adore you?” I slurred into his shoulder.
