Chapter 4
Bathrooms & Paparazzi
Ari
My week went on like usual—lots of work, far more screen time than a doctor would recommend, and writing code until my eyes felt like they were going to bleed.
When Saturday night rolled around, I stared at Logan’s number in my phone. He had been on my mind since the moment he walked out of the stupid hotel room, leaving the ball in my court. I thought after a few days he would fade to the backburner, but that was seeming to be impossible.
“I need a drink,” I muttered to myself while rummaging through my closet for something decent to wear. Settling on a flowy, dark blue maxi dress and strappy sandals, I grabbed my purse off of the counter in the kitchen and marched out the door.
Like I typically did on a weekend night, I bellied up to the outside bar at Might As Well. Within minutes, I was greeted with a Bell’s Two Hearted and a sweet grin from Ashlyn, one of my favorite bartenders of all time.
“No work computer with you tonight?” she asked while setting my pint glass on a coaster in front of me.
I rubbed the bridge of my nose where a nagging headache was lingering. “I think my eyes need a break. Pretty dead around here tonight. Where is everyone?”
“Give it a little bit and this place will be packed as usual.” Ashlyn shrugged. “Oh, how was the wedding? We missed you last week.” She leaned on the counter, probably thankful to have someone to talk to at the empty bar.
“It was great.” I beamed, sitting up a little straighter. “Josie had the best time, and everyone seemed to enjoy themselves. All in all, it really was a successful wedding.”
“Is that all?” she pressed with a knowing smile.
I could feel my cheeks turning every shade of red possible as I bit my lip. “I might have met a guy.”
Excitement flashed on her face as she leaned in closer. “Don’t leave a girl hanging.”
“Well, not just any guy…Logan Turner, one of my new brother-in-law’s teammates.”
Ashlyn gasped as she grabbed a drink order ticket that printed out next to her. “And?” she asked as she started to mix the requested cocktail.
“And nothing. He went home to Durham and I’m here. That’s all she wrote.” I played with the corner of my coaster, hoping the conversation would end there.
“You look like you want to say something else.” Ashlyn was good. Over the years, she had become more of a friend than just a bartender, and since I didn’t get out much, she usually served as my sounding board for any problem that arose.
“He wants me to call him. He’s going to be here next weekend with his parents and asked if we could get a drink,” I explained.
“But you don’t want to?” she questioned while reassuming her position in front of me.
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. He’s a football star and I’m a video game geek—doesn’t that seem like oil and water?” I felt like he was completely out of my league. It was the bitter reality of the situation. Logan was unavoidably going to figure out that I was boring as hell and would run for the hills at some point.
She pulled her strawberry blonde hair up into a ponytail while pursing her lips. “Everyone seems like oil and water until they realize how good they are for each other. Why don’t you just give him a chance? What’s the worst that could really happen? It’s not like you have to marry the guy, but wouldn’t it be nice to at least give it a try? And for fuck’s sake, he’s Logan Turner—most women would kill for a chance at a hunk like that.”
“Maybe you’re right,” I conceded while popping two Advil into my mouth to wash down with my ale.
“Just promise if you do meet up with him for a drink next weekend, you’ll bring him here so I have a little eye candy for the night.”
“Deal.”
An hour and twelve Buffalo chicken wings later, the bar was packed just like Ashlyn had predicted. It was interesting to watch the fast-paced bartenders sling drink after drink to thirsty barflies while they carried on in various groups. People watching was always entertaining.
A broad-shouldered, drunken patron plopped himself on the empty stool to my right, leaning a little too close for comfort.
“Can I help you?” I questioned, pulling my fresh beer closer to myself.
“Come here often?” The overused pickup line was stammered out with a slight hint of whiskey wafting over on his breath.
“If you’re asking that, you don’t,” I retorted.
