She tosses back another shot of tequila, without the lime, straightens her dress and starts walking right towards me.
“Is this seat taken?” she asks the moment the guy next to me gets up and walks away. She realizes immediately that the timing of that age-old line is humorously off and blushes again.
I give her some grace. It’s clear this girl never does something like this, and everything about her expression says so.
“You’re in luck. It appears to have just opened up,” I tell her.
She swallows and nods before sitting down.
“I’m Charlotte,” she tells me, holding out a hand while I hold back a laugh.
“I’m surprised,” I tell her, squeezing her hand.
She blinks. “Why?”
“Because you don’t strike me as a girl who makes the first move,” I answer with an easy smile.
“Oh.” She smiles too, but it’s not an easy one.
Poor girl. She’s a ball of nerves with enough static to power a lightning storm.
“Yeah. Well. I am…a make the first move kind of girl I mean,” she stutters, combing her hair back behind her ears. Not in the normal afterthought kind of way girls usually do it. She does it neatly, symmetrically tucking the same amount of hair back on both sides. “I do it all the time. In fact, you’re not the first guy I’ve talked to tonight.”
“Yeah?” I ask, amused.
“Yeah.”
“Impressive.” I say, taking a sip of my beer and looking at her.
“Yeah,” she says and her smile slips. “I mean, no. I mean…I never do this. Actually, you’re the first guy I’ve talked to in more than a week, save for the bartender, and I don’t think he likes me very much.”
“Well, it’s a good thing he’s not the one buying you a drink tonight then, isn’t it?” I ask, and it takes her a second. “That was me offering to buy you a drink.”
“Oh. Oh! Of course. Yeah. A drink might be a good idea,” she says nervously.
“Yeah, I thought so too,” I smile and wave down the bartender
He walks in front of us, and I nod toward her. “Lady’s choice.”
“Another round of Jose?” the bartender asks.
“Actually, I’ll have a beer. The shandy, please,” she says. Both the bartender and I raise an eyebrow. “What? I like beer. I actually hate tequila.”
“Is that why you just pounded two shots of it?” I ask.
“No. I pounded two shots of it because tequila works a lot faster than beer does,” she answers, thanking the bartender as he sets her beer down.
“Got it,” I nod. “Rough day?”
“Rough week,” she says, taking a ginger sip of her shandy and I’m not surprised she likes lemon.
“Damn,” I say.
“How about you? What has you drinking alone on a Friday night?” she asks and unbeknownst to her, she’s better at this than she thinks.
“Last I checked, I’m having a drink with a beautiful girl,” I say, and she spits out a laugh that sprays beer foam across the bar top.
Again, her cheeks blaze.
