My stomach floods with cold shock.
“He came here in person,” I repeat, “and waited for hours?”
The bouncer nods. “I mean, yeah, he kept going back and forth between here and Valhalla, the sports bar next door, but when a cancellation came through this afternoon, we gave the reservation to him. And he said it was for you. Josephine Davis. That’s the name you gave at the door when your group came in.”
Warmth gathers in my heart like a whirling dervish, growing stronger, more powerful every moment. Then my heart beats with emphasis—once, twice, three times—and the white-hot feeling floods my veins in tiny sparks.
“Excuse me,” I mutter.
I quickly use the bathroom and wash my hands, my mind careening. Instinct carries me across the main room. I swerve past clubbers on the dance floor and make a beeline for the front door. Outside in the alley, the air is smoky and damp. In the direction of Valhalla, a large sign glows bright, and shiny windows display the bar’s bread-and-butter sports fanatics inside.
What are the odds he’s still in there?
I push open the door as a cheer erupts in the direction of the TV screens. It’s crowded in here, the music still loud and in direct competition with the sports announcers. The bar is strung in fairy lights that give the place a foggy glow.
I scan faces. My body feels as heavy as a bowling ball as I plow through groups, searching for him. If I don’t find Will on a first pass, I tell myself, I’ll go back to Andalo and let it go. Text him instead, thank him, ask him what on earth possessed him to—
“What are you doing here?” His deep, smooth voice stills me right in my tracks.
My eyes jerk up to his. The blue flecks wink silver at me.
“That’s my line!” I push a finger into his chest, my gaze catching on the Predators T-shirt he’s wearing.
Will’s holding a frosty draft beer in one hand, but his other arm scoops around my waist. In an effortless movement, he pulls me against his chest just as I feel the brush of someone trying to sneak past me from behind.
“Thanks, man,” the passerby says to Will, who nods, his chin catching on the crown of my head. I feel the rough stubble of his five-o’clock shadow before he releases me.
“Is something wrong with the reservation?” Will asks.
“Oh, you mean the reservation you apparently waited around all day for? That one?”
“What are you wearing?” A grin tugs at his lips as his gaze catches on my crop top, the wordPARTYprinted in all caps, bright pink across the front.
I glance down at myself. “We were supposed to go home and change before dinner, but you said to be there at eight and time got away from us.”
“That,” he says, his grin widening, a lock of hair creeping down across one temple, “is not even a remotely sufficient answer.”
“Camila’s shirt saysWife of the Party,” I explain. “Party, Wife of the Party. It’s a pun.”
“On a scale of one to ten, how much do you hate that shirt?”
“On a scale of one to ten, how much it’s about whatIthink is a zero.”
A dimple pops out. The left one. “Something tells me the list of people you’d let tell you what to wear is short.”
“Short? It’s microscopic. It was painful agreeing to the bridesmaid dress. Orange is not my color.”
Will laughs out loud, the sound like a cool breeze.
“It’s weird I can amuse you now.”
“You always amused me,” he says. “I’m just comfortable enough to show it now.”
I brush past the honesty of this and ask, tongue in cheek, “Come here often?”
Another person is trying to sneak behind me; we’re stopped right in the aisle of traffic leading to the bar. This time I close the distance to Will on my own, stepping into his personal space while that same arm curls around my waist again.
“I know it’s a weird coincidence,” he allows, raising his glass to take a sip of his beer. I track the movement as he swallows, myeyesight in line with his throat. “But this is the Preds bar, and my mom is married to one of the old coaches.”
