Pathetic.
For a second, I entertained the idea of surprising him in the shower. The potential rejection shut it down so fast. I’m not the impulsive type. I like to know the end result before I jump into anything. What if I’m tired of being cautious? What if the next part of my plan is something I couldn’t account for? I balk at the thought before it fully forms. I’ve never been one to take risks. Even though I planned and prepared for everything I could think of, Jack and I still didn’t work out. To be honest, there’s nothing I could’ve done to make him a better person.
Maybe I can’t plan for the next chapter.
And that’s fucking terrifying.
“You don’t have to drink that,” Holland says interrupting my borderline-inappropriate thoughts.
“I want to. Everything is so goooood,” I reply while tipping my head to touch his shoulder. I rest it there for a minute.
Ryan laughs and shoots Holland a look. “I like her.”
“And I like your drinks.” I pick the small taster up and cheers Ryan. Both men laugh as I taste the cider. “And we end this adventure on a wonderful note. This is delicious.” I set the glass down in front of me.
“Ryan, my good man. Tell me your favorite drink.”
“Easy. I’m a big scotch guy.”
“Scotch.” I giggle at the word. My head is floating. My face hurts from smiling.
Something else I didn’t expect was how often I caught myself staring at Holland. I swear, I’m not a creep. Really, I want to figure him out. I steal one last look and I’m caught.
With pursed lips and a slow devious shake of his head, Holland looks right back at me.
Busted.
Chapter Twenty-Six
WHENEVER RYAN comes in with new drinks, I sample a few. His tap room makes up most of our drink menu and I know it’s all good. But Ivy didn’t take the same approach. She took a drink of everything he put in front of us which was not a small amount.
It’s more of a formality—him bringing samples. I feel like he comes in to hang out and tonight, he got more than what he bargained for. Ivy was so into everything he was telling her. She had so many questions about the apples, the grapes, the hops. Her curiosity and enthusiasm are genuine, which made the sampling much more enjoyable.
Ryan’s gone and now it’s just the two of us again.
My brain replays how she moaned while eating the bruschetta dip. It could be possible she’s caught on to the moan reaction because now she makes sure to find my eyes with hers. Every time.
She’s torturing me. And she knows it. I have to adjust myself a few times throughout which makes her grin ear to ear.
Drunk Ivy has her head propped up with her arm, elbow on the table. She giggles for no reason. I remind her of the water in front of her. She finds this funny.
“Ya know what I just r’membered?” she slurs.
“What’s that?” I play along.
“You’re Spidey! My own Spider-Man!”
The way my stomach drops when she says, “my own.”
“Sure, I can be your Spider-Man.” I go along with it. It’s my go-to move when someone is drunk, no use reasoning with them.
“Slate is your sidekick.” She gasps. “Can we go see Slate? Pleaaaaase?!” She claps her hands to her knees. Some people may assume this is sarcastic excitement, but I know it’s authentic.
Before I can answer, she picks up her drink and spills the entire glass all over herself.
It takes everything in me not to laugh at her.
“Whoooops. It’s fine. I’m fine.” She’s fucking adorable. “It’s not that much. I’m not even wet.” She’s trying to convince herself that she didn’t spill a ridiculous amount of water all over. “Oh nooooo… your table!”
