When I glanced back over at David, I caught him looking at his phone for a second and typing a quick response before setting it face down on the table.
David
sorry.
It was half-hearted at best. I blew out a breath and tugged my laptop out of my bag. Fuck him. I wouldn’t waste a walk down here. I’d finish one of my papers and then come up with a new game plan. Maybe I could convince Haven to be my plus one. Our relationship could be realistic considering we’d been roommates forever. She wouldn’t give me half the headache David would, and she’d actually appreciate the company of my family.
Falling into a work rhythm was easy despite all thesurrounding noise. I’d almost forgotten how much I loved having the buzz of conversation around me while writing. After two ginger ales, one awkward date refusal with an awkward CS major, and a brief conversation with the bartender about climate change, I’d nearly forgotten all about my David problem. I had almost let it go until Weston Briggs appeared by my side to remind me.
He’d come to the bar for a refill and did a double-take when he saw me.
“Hi.” His smile was lopsided and cute, front teeth slightly crooked in a way that made no sense, but also made him more approachable.
“Hello.” My voice sounded a little suspect. I glanced over his shoulder at David, considering maybe this was some odd chess move. But David was still too enmeshed in conversation to direct his attention outside his booth.
“I’m Weston.” He offered me his hand. It was large, veiny, and possibly worthy of an art study. “And you’re Yara.”
I accepted the handshake. He didn’t squeeze my fingers to death like some guys did when they were trying to prove a domineering point. He teetered toward the okay side of my first impressions meter.
“David’s mentioned you,” he said.
My brow quirked up. “Really?”
Weston nodded, taking a seat next to me. When he rested his arm on the bar counter, his sleeve rode up slightly, revealing the last set from the tattoo trio. I tried not to stare or ask the question burning on my tongue, because if the gossip mill was even slightly accurate, the reasoning behind those tattoos wasn’t something you brought up casually.
“All terrible things, I’m sure,” I joked, but his silence made me frown and repeat, “Allterrible things?”
He chuckled. “Not all.”
“But some, which is more than enough.” It took concentrated effort not scowl. “Care to share? Or are you also in the camp of taking a bullet for him and thus, loyal to a fault?”
“I don’t make my mind up about people based on secondhand accounts,” he said, a gentle assurance that I wasn’t already on his bad side. “No matter how much I trust the… accounter?”
“Accounty?” I tried.
“Accountant?”
We shared a laugh.
“I think you scare him,” Weston said once our laughter faded.
“What?”
“You’re very put-together.” He took in my outfit and leather handbag. “And you answer all his calls. He’s not used to the attention.”
I laughed. “Yeah, okay.”
“Your counter?” Weston rested his chin on his hand, settling in for a long haul.
“He doesn’t get scared.”
“What makes you say that?”
I shrugged. “He’s a bank vault of a human being. Nothing gets in or out.”
“Plenty gets in,” Weston argued. “What do you think the tellers are for?”
“You saying I’m a teller?”
