“Wait,” he says, stepping toward me. “How about we seal this new partnership by going out for a few drinks?”
“Fletch,” I warn, my eyes narrowing. “What did we just say about the flirting? And don’t you have a game tomorrow? I thought you weren't supposed to drink before a game.”
“Fine, I’ll buy you a drink while I carb-load on bar snacks. Plus, this is just as friends,” he says, throwing his hands up. “No hidden agenda or anything. It’s completely innocent. I swear.”
“Uh, huh. Sure.”
“Okay, fine. Would I love it if this were a date? Of course, but this would be nothing more than two friends, or rather, two coworkers, going out after a long day on the job.”
I don’t buy it. I know better, and yet, despite the metaphorical neon sign flashingdangerabove his head, I still find myself wanting to say yes.
“Fine,” I sigh, the words leaving my mouth before I can second-guess them. “Drinks and bar food it is. But that’s it,” I warn, pointing a finger at him.
“That’s it.”
Unfortunately, it’s not just him I’m worried about these days—it’s me. I may be trying to set the rules, but when it comes to Mason Fletcher, he makes breaking them feel too easy.
12
Fletcher
“Look at you behaving,” Hollis teases, lifting her mojito and taking a sip.
“And to think you doubted me.” I click my tongue and shake my head. “I’ll be honest though, it hasn’t been easy.”
“Your restraint is appreciated, despite you having already slipped up once or twice.”
“Hey, I’ve never claimed to be a saint,” I say, reaching for my glass of sparkling water. “Besides, who wouldn’t slip up when seated next to the most gorgeous woman in this bar?”
She scans the room. “Does it really count when I’m theonlywoman in the bar?”
“Not true,” I counter, also glancing around. “But for your sake, how about we say you’re the best looking woman here under fifty,” I suggest, flashing her my pearly whites before taking a drink.
“Wow. Such high praise,” she says, nodding in mock offense. “You really know how to make a girl feel special. I also didn’t realize you were that into cougars.”
I choke on my drink and laugh, waving my hand. “Wait, no. That’s not...” I manage between chuckles as she giggles along with me.
There was a reason I chose this particular bar. While the Honky Tonks aren’t exactly a household name yet, we’ve slowly been building a fan base here in Houston. Choosing a dive bar like this one was the only true way to guarantee we wouldn’t be noticed or interrupted by fans.
Still, “diverse” might be the most generous word for who we’ve got in here tonight. The only other woman in here could literally be my grandma. I may have a soft spot for my nana, but nope. Not my type. No, Freudian or Oedipal crises happening here. Plus, she might just be a little too intense for me considering she’s currently double-fisting a pair of shot glasses as she drunkenly cheers on the two men playing pool in the back.
“I was just trying to be nice, but what I really meant to say is that, no matter the age, you’re still the hottest woman in this bar. Hell, in any bar,” I finally manage.
“Hmmm,” she ponders, tapping her red-painted fingernails on the bartop. “I’m not sure if I should be flattered or file acomplaint with HR. Didn’t we agree that this is just a friendly outing between coworkers?”
“Yeah, so? Am I not allowed to compliment the people I work with, now?”
“Well, one might consider it sexual harassment. I mean, do you normally tell your other coworkers and teammates they’re the hottest ones in the bar?”
“Hell yeah I do,” I shoot back. “Have you seen Hudson and Easten? Those two motherfuckers are fine as hell. Plus, I consider it my official duty as their wingman to constantly boost their egos with the constant reminder. Can’t have my guy’s not believing in themselves.”
“I see,” she giggles, and it’s so fucking nice to see her smile, especially when her usual go-to is to keep it hidden whenever we’re together. “So if I’m getting the same compliment, does that mean you’re my official wingman tonight?”
I once again take a look around the small bar, my brows kitting together. “I mean, sure, but are any of these men actually your type?”
The crowd here definitely leans toward a certain demographic. We’re surrounded by nothing but older men who look like they’ve been glued to their barstools since the early ‘90’s, likely nursing their beers and telling the same story over and over as they try to relive their golden years.
“I don’t know,” she shrugs casually before lifting her glass for another sip. “I could be into the whole salt-and-peppered daddy type.”
