I should take her hand or hug her or…something. Instead, I nod. “Hello, Freya.”
She notices my hesitation and the way I’m holding myself back, so the air between us grows tense. Ten seconds in and I’m already blowing this.
“Let’s get inside. It’s fucking freezing out here,” Archer says, breaking the tension and placing a hand on the small of each of our backs. He goes first to the hostess stand to ask for our reservation, although it’s under my name. The restaurant is crowded and bustling as the hostess guides us to a table in the back, near a window facing the street.
Archer pulls out Freya’s chair as I take the one on the inside next to him. As I turn my chair to face the both of them, I pick up the scent of his cologne again, and it arouses something in my veins.
“You look stunning,” he says to her again, and it has my jaw clenching. If he’s going to serve her compliments all night, he’s leaving me no room to do so myself. Which I would if she and I were alone. Wouldn’t I? It would be the gentlemanly thing to do.
What am I thinking? Why does it even matter if I serve her compliments? This isn’t a date. We’re just three new friends, out to eat on a Tuesday night.
She points to his lip. “Why do you do that to yourself?”
“Oh, this?” he asks, touching his mouth. “I like to let them get one good hit in. Gives them false confidence.”
Freya is unimpressed, shaking her head at him. “Seems stupid and reckless to me.”
He shrugs. “Well, Chef, I am stupid and reckless.”
Watching Archer, I notice the way he never seems to take offense to anything. He’s always rolling with the punches, so to speak, and laughing it off whenever anyone points out things I know would make a normal person feel attacked. It makes me wonder what he’s hiding underneath all that bravado, and what does one have to do to get it out?
The server comes by, and we each order our drinks. A French 75 for Freya. A draft beer for Archer. And a glass of Dalmore for me.
While we wait for our drinks, Archer keeps the conversation going, asking Freya about her movie last night, where she apparently saw a replaying ofCasablancain an old theater. Then he asks me about the club again, prodding for information about how my dad owned it first, but I don’t divulge much information there. Not without a few drinks in me.
Maybe I’ll tell him about the time I looked under my parents’ bed—a mistake I only made once.
Once the server sets the drinks on the table, Archer picks his up, holding it forward as he says, “To new friends.”
“To new friends,” Freya replies with a smile.
When they both look at me, it’s as if I’m standing on the outside of this circle, being invited in. So why do I feel so hesitant? Why am I constantly trying to erect this wall between us when at the core of my mind, I know the truth?
I like them. I really do.
I like her flair and his charisma. And I want them to like me.
So, swallowing my nerves and whatever nagging voice in the back of my head it is that keeps telling me I’m better off alone, I lift my glass.
“New friends?” I ask, even managing a crooked smile. “And here I thought this was a date.”
They both light up, and I feel a hint of pride in that. Clinking our glasses together, we all take a drink, staring at each other over the rims.
Our plates are emptied and our bellies full as Archer entertains us with an animated story about the first time he flew a helicopter at only nine years old. I’m almost a hundred percent sure he’s embellishing the story for dramatic effect, but Freya is leaned back in her chair, her hand on her stomach as she laughs so hard, she hiccups.
So if he’s lying, it’s worth it.
With an elbow on the table and yet another empty glass in my hand, I watch him with interest. I could listen to him speak for hours, which is a new sensation for me. I normally despise people who talk too much or for too long, but Archer commands attention.
He dominates any space he’s in, and I am his willing submissive.
Okay, I’ve had too many drinks. That’s definitely a sign. When I start picturing myself in very alluring and provocative positions with a person, I know it’s time to slow down.
And yet when the server comes back around and Archer waves her down, I find myself holding up my glass to ask for another. I know Ishouldcall it quits soon, but everything is going so well.
The conversation is easy. The laughter is effortless. My mind is quiet.
Why would I call it quits on this?
