So, basically: don’t tell anyone.
He didn’t broach the subject of Dougie Dawson, only told me about his father in direct relation tohim,so I have a perfectly clear conscience when I say, “I’ll keep it to myself.”
And I will.
He waits to see my reaction, brow furrowed with nerves, but at the same time his shoulders relax like a weight’s been lifted from them.
It dawns on me, right then: the only time we’ve ever touched was when he shook my hand in the cooking studio the day we met.
I mean, it makes perfect sense for two coworkers not to touch a lot, but I want to… hug him?
Yeah, that must be it. A nice, comforting, professional hug. But obviously, there’s no such thing. So, instead—
“Want to get drunk?”
CHAPTER TEN
We wind up at Sleight of Hand, a trendy bar near Washington Square Park.
“You ever been here?” Alex asks as he holds open the door for me.
Suavely, I walk through and say, “Yeah, once or twice,” even though I haven’t. I’ve heard of it, though; this place is popular enough to always have a line down the block after dark. I was surprised Alex suggested it but intrigued enough by his taste in drinking establishments not to ask questions.
Inside, the walls are adorned with playing cards—diamonds, spades, hearts, and clubs, clustered together to form the bar’s name against shiny black paint. Crushed-velvet booths in deep burgundy line the walls and freestanding gold benches are scattered around white tabletops. It’s seven o’clock on a Friday; the sun has nearly set, and the place is packed.
Alex follows me inside and heads straight for the bar. He waves two fingers at the guy behind it as we slide into the only two unoccupied bar stools. At first, I assume Alex is waving to get thebartender’s attention, but when he notices us, his lips pull up on one side. “You really can’t get enough of me, can you?”
The bartender has blond slicked-back hair, like Leonardo DiCaprio in almost every movie (I’m not convinced it isn’t intentional), and a big face covered by a neatly trimmed beard. Wordlessly, he whips out a thick-bottomed crystal glass and starts pouring bitters and simple syrup into it.
“What if I wanted something else?” Alex grumbles.
“You didn’t.” Dupe Leo grabs the Angel’s Envy from the shelf behind him and tops up the makings of an old-fashioned.
“Freddy, this is Casey,” Alex says.
The bartender looks at Alex, then turns his gaze on me. “Oh, you—I thought you just walked in at the same time. Sorry.” He reaches out a sticky, orange-scented hand for me to shake. I push my palm against his, and Freddy’s eyes dance.
“I do have other friends besides you, Frederick,” Alex says.
“You really don’t.”
I look at Alex. “We’re friends?”
I meant that as a genuine question—Are we? Friends?—but Freddy laughs like I’m the funniest thing since Andy Samberg. “What would you like to drink, Casey?”
I lean forward on my elbows, considering my options. “Ummmm,” I mumble, stalling. God, I’m so indecisive. Why can’t I have a “drink” like Alex apparently has a “drink”? And seriously, Angel’s Envy? In this economy?
“Should I make something up?” Freddy suggests.
“Can you make it nut-allergen-friendly and less than eleven dollars?”
He shrugs. “Sure.”
“Go for it.”
The hum of voices coupled with Shwayze music fill the silence between us as Freddy whips up my drink. He pulls apart a grapefruit, and the spray of citrus tickles my nose. I wrap my handsaround my elbows and take a deep breath, relaxing into the bar stool. Beside me, ice clinks in Alex’s glass while he shakes it.
It’s starting to settle in—how novel this is. The two of us together outside of work hours, and on my suggestion, at that.
