It’s probably best not to chance it, but I’m already on my feet and walking that direction so I might as well commit to at least one drink at the bar.Here we go.
I approach the bar and sit down with an empty stool on either side of my new post. Shimmying into the seat and making sure my dress doesn’t ride up my thighs, I lift my eyes to the bartender and signal for a drink.
“Whatcha having, honey?” the man in too-tight jeans asks. He’s cute, but I’m fairly certain those pants are cutting off circulation to his goods and therefore he’s sterile. Not that I’m here for breeding, but seriously, those pants are grossly tight on him. And his perfectly coiffed pompadour and bright pink nail polish tell me he probably bats for the other team. So, even if his pants fit him like a normal person, he’s still not an option. At least I can be comforted knowing he won’t hit on me.
“Vodka soda, please. Belvedere, if you have it.”
He snorts as if I’m an idiot for thinking he wouldn’t have it. It's been ages since I've been to a bar. I'm clearly out of practice.
So many strikes against me tonight. Can’t remember how to flirt, sounded like an idiot to the bartender, can’t walk in these stupid fucking shoes — who knows what will come next?
This isn’t so bad, really. I may not be interacting with others or dancing myself into a sweaty mess, but I’m no longer hiding in a shadowy booth in the corner. This feels good. Dare I say, comfortable?I chuckle to myself.Comfortable. Not by a long shot.But that’s okay. All things considered, this night out isn’t terrible. I hope the arrival of my drink will trigger the departure of my lingering nerves.
The seat to my right scrapes across the floor. I’m surprised I could even hear it over the music, but I glance to my right and, for the first time tonight, I don’t smell smoke. I smell sandalwood mixed with some sort of spruce. Sheesh, that smells amazing, and I feel my shoulders relax a bit.
Glimpsing over, I see thick, wavy dark brown hair neatly tied in a man bun. Oh my. Something about a man confident enough to wear his hair that way stirs something inside of me. The hair frames a face with olive-toned skin that looks like it has tales to tell. I quietly will him to turn my way, eager to get a better look.
And then, there’s the beard. Not the scruffy kind that feels like sandpaper, nor the overly long one that can be a mouthful. No, it's that perfect two-week growth, just right for running fingers through during a lingering kiss.
He takes a slow, thoughtful sip from his beer bottle. How it must feel to be that close to those lips, nestled between the beard and...
Hold on. When did I become this person? One enticing scent, one fleeting look, and I'm this lost? Well, it's been a while.
His gaze shifts to mine, a warm, inviting half-smile playing on his lips. It's genuine and absolutely heart-stopping.
“Hello,” he purrs, eyes locked onto mine. They’re deep, brown pools of intrigue. Warm. Knowing.
“Hi,” I breathe out, realizing it's my turn. Why is this suddenly so hard?
“I’m Dexter.”
“Alis.”
“Fitting, seeing as I first caught your reflection through the looking glass,” he says with a sly nod to the bar's mirrored backdrop.
“Literary foreplay. Impressive. Definitely beats the usual wonderland line.”
A moment of surprised delight and... was that a mutual spark?Let’s hope I keep this momentum going.Ten points to Gryffindor!God, please tell me I didn’t say that part out loud.
“To assume we’d journey to Wonderland tonight might be a bit presumptuous, given our fresh acquaintance,” he observes with a playful tone.
“Well, you're right. We won’t be venturing into any fairytales this evening. Especially not any unsuitable for work,” I smirk. Yet, something tells me I might have misstepped with the dashing Mr. Dexter, complete with a sultry man bun and beard.
His grin widens, revealing a set of teeth that are enticingly uneven. I've always had an odd fascination with smiles. While many are drawn to hair color or eye hue, a captivating smile cripples me. Dexter’s is splendidly flawed — nature’s own design. Oddly, perfectly aligned teeth make me think of a boob job. Nothing against them — boobs or braces — but finding a natural smile with its own charm? It's incomparable.
“You’ve hardly thrown a wrench into the evening," he comments, leaning in closer. "I’m quite keen on a spirited discourse with an enchanting lady. Care to indulge me?”
Attempting to play it cool, I lower my gaze and murmur, “I'd be delighted.”
Just then the bartender sets my vodka soda down in front of me and as I reach into my clutch to pull out some bills and pay the man, Dexter pipes up. “Put her drinks on my tab.”
The bartender nods and walks off to take orders at the other end of the bar.
“Drinks, plural? Expecting a long chat, are we?” I quip, trying to keep the conversation light.
“If the pages should turn so easily.” He quirks his lips in that irresistible semi-smile.
With a playful raise of his brow, he inquires, “Now, who, pray tell, is Alis?”
