Jay
Loves traditions yet breaks rules. Aren’t you full of surprises.
Hollis
I told you I like surprises.
Jay
And I told you I like surprising.
Marv
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“Is this China meat?” Marv shouts from the kitchen.
“Local,” I holler from my spot behind the bar. “From that farm near Asheville.”
He grunts. The grill sizzles. The smell of cooked onions ensues and mixes with the scent of oranges and hops already in the air.
I pull out a sleeve of plastic cups, lining them along the bar for tonight’s flights and flick my gaze to the door.
No Hollis.Yet.She’ll show.
Despite how worked up she got at the movie, and the fact she mentioned other plans in last night’s text—which, I can be honest, irritated me—she’ll be here.
I wasn’t lying when I said I want to ask her out. I do. I’ve wanted to since she wedged her way into our bowling game. But she’s a woman with a broken heart and a hang up on traditions. I have to wait, have to be sure she’s ready, for her as much as me.
I hadn’t planned on touching her, but she started talking about dating, and as much as I knew she was bluffing, I had to be sure. Had to confirm the spark I feel just by sitting next to her wasn’t just my imagination.
It wasn’t.
Thirty seconds of her hand in mine generated enough electricity to power every string of lights in Christmas Village USA.
I had to know; now I do. There’s something.
And no matter what she says, the constant flush of her cheeks and adorable oversharing all say one thing: She feels it, she just needs more time.
Plus, I can read. And I do.
Everything she writes.
She’s coming around.
The warmup twang of guitar floats from the band donning tropical poinsettia shirts on the small corner stage as headlights shine through the window.
A minivan.
I grin.
But when Hollis pushes through the doors of Brew-Ha-Ha Brewing, my smile falters. Because she’s hot. Tight jeans, low sweater, new hair hot. And the way she’s strutting toward me, she knows it.
“Hey,” I say, setting the stack of cups on the bar.
Her usual light brown hair is in waves around her shoulders with new hints of blonde, and she’s wearing makeup. Light pink on her full lips and mascara framing her blue eyes. Little ankle boots and painted-on jeans make her legs look eight miles long. The neck of her red sweater is low, revealing a small line of cleavage I haven’t had the privilege of seeing until this very moment. Every time we’ve gotten together, she’s been cute—either dressed as a cat or casual—but this woman staring me down is downright sexy.
I rest my palms on the edge of the bar. “Wasn’t sure you were coming.”
