With the shake of my head, I stride to my closet. Honestly, I don't think about my age all that much, or at least I didn't used to. The guys rib me, I rib them back. And despite them calling me old, I don't usuallyfeelthat much older than them. But lately? Lately, I've been thinking about it a lot. Couldn't be the cute little librarian who's way too young for me. If I were ten years younger, I'd have already asked her out. The first time she made me laugh, that would have been it. In a heartbeat. But ten years ago, I smiled more. Not a lot, but more. Things felt easier then. More hopeful. Now? I've got more life behind me than in front, and I can't help but consider that from time to time.
Anyway, I should get out more, that's true at least. And those burritos really do taste like shit.
Soon enough I've exchanged my athletic clothes for jeans, a tee, and lace up boots, and I'm in my truck, headed for The Horseshoe. On a Thursday. But the real trouble? When I walkthrough the door, my stomach does a little flip when I see Molly sitting there.
They cheer when they spot me, and I shake my head at them.
I catch Leo's attention behind the bar and pantomime pouring a beer. He nods and reaches for a fresh pitcher to fill. When I get to the table, I clap Remy's shoulder too hard.
"Hey, smartass," I grumble at him, but there's a little smirk on my face. At least I think there is--I've been told it's sometimes too minute for the naked eye. I'm greeting everyone, they're greeting me. The only open seat is at the end between Tate and Shelby, who are sniping at each other about something or another. The two of them need to get locked in a room for twenty-four hours so they can bang whatever's between them out of their systems. Though who knows what Wilder would think of his sister sleeping with his best friend. Nothing good. Definitely not good for Tate, or his bodily health. But I don't think there's any danger of that--Shelby's irritated with him as usual, and he's goading her by pretending like he doesn't care. His smirk is lethal.
Reluctantly, I sit between them and pour myself a beer from one of the pitchers on the table.
Shelby rolls her eyes. "You're not a heartthrob, Tate. You're a cautionary tale."
"Come on, Shelbs," he says, leaning back in his chair. "You've gotta admit--I go on a lot of dates."
Wilder laughs. "Like the latest one? He matched with his ex's cousin."
"Ex would imply he's capable of commitment," Shelby notes, taking a sip of her beer.
"Don't worry, he's still not," Wilder says. "He cheated on the ex. Go on. Tell everybody what happened with her cousin."
Tate shrugs. "She slapped me in the mouth. And then I took her home."
Everybody collectively somehow groans and laughs.
"She took one look at his place and ghosted him," Wilder adds.
"Man, whose side are you on?" Tate scoffs.
"You earned it," Shelby says on a laugh. "You've ghosted more girls than a haunted house."
The crew oohs, watching the exchange like it's Wimbledon.
Tate clicks his tongue, his beer on a track for his mouth. "She still spent the night."
Again, everyone eggs them on while he takes a drink. Shelby looks light, but her eyes are hard as diamonds.
"Come on, Shelbs," Tate says, needling her. "Is that all you got?"
"Baby, my well is endless."
"Lay it on me, honey."
"Don't call me honey, asshole."
"Don't call me asshole, gorgeous."
She laughs. "You asked for it." She takes a sip of her beer as if to fuel her, then pins him with a look that's hot as the inside of a fire. "You flirt like you're applying for a job you're not qualified for," she starts., the table erupting in laughter "I've seen better pickup lines on the Horseshoe's bathroom wallsDating apps should pay you for stress testing the block button." That one even gets me. And then she leans in, elbow on the table. "You've got the dating range of a gas station hot dog--cheap, available, anddefinitelytoxic."
The table howls, Tate's included. Shelby stands to bow, rolling her hand in a flourish.
"Marry me!" Tate shouts at her, but he's laughing too.
"I'd rather eat a roll of aluminum foil," she says sweetly as she sits.
With that, the chuckling group dissolves into side conversations, leaving Tate and I on our own. But I watch Mollyas she talks to Carlin. She lights up like a struck match when he asks her a question, and my hackles tingle. Carlin is a puppy, harmless and hopeful and eager. Maybe it's the eager part that bugs me. They have everything in common. They get on great. He's a good kid.
