“Just hold me for a little while longer,” she says, nuzzling further into my hold. “It’s been a long week.” She initiated a hug—the simplest, yet most meaningful touch—and I’m surprised in the best way possible.
“I’ve got nowhere else to be.”
There’s an unfamiliar feeling of pride sitting in my chest knowing Cove chose me to rest with. The guy who, an hour ago, questioned if the speed and trajectory of my life would ever interest her. Those invalid doubts don’t just go away, but moments like these make them less…concerning.
I get to hold her, and I’m not ending this hug until she does.
My mom used to tell me that’s when you know the person receiving the hug really needed it. Let them pull away first. You making the first move only cuts their need for physical touch short. Someone to hold them for a moment’s time.
I never realized how important a hug truly is. Never realized how much I needed this very one just as much, either.
As her arms start to detach from my waist, I can sense the sluggishness in her frame. Taking it into my own hands, I flag down the closest bellhop and direct him to grabCove’s bag while I lead her to the lobby bar. Locating two abandoned barstools, I guide her to sit as I flag down the bartender.
“What are we doing?” Cove giggles, reaching to touch the nape of my neck. I’m not sure she realizes very little thought went into the affection, but I did. She touched me like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“We’re getting a drink before I feed you. Did you know The Beverly is known for their dirty martinis?” Her nails nonchalantly drag along my shoulders, and I hold back a groan.
“Is that right? I happen to love dirty martinis,” she coos.
“I might remember that.” I order our drinks, and we sit in silence for a moment, the gravity of being here together feeling more significant than ever. The bartender hands me my scotch and Cove her martini, and I wait.
I wait to see if it lives up to the hype. I’d hate to have to remove The Beverly from the mental list I started keeping. Lately, I’ve forced myself to try dirty martinis everywhere I travel, just in case we visit together someday. Not that I think I’m a suitable judge like her, but I try. Makes me feel closer to her.
Cove’s pink lips meet the rim of the glass, and the moment a soft hum resounds from beside me, I know we’re golden. “Oscar worthy?”
“Feels like an Olympic win.” She rises from her stool, waving down the bartender. “What’s the secret? Wait, don’t tell me.” She holds up her finger before reaching into her glass with the other and plopping an olive into her mouth. “They’re homemade. Nothing about these babies says they came from a jar,” Cove says on a mouthful.
The bartender throws a rag over his shoulder before leaning toward her. “Bingo. House-made blue cheesestuffed right into the olive. The owners grow the olives themselves. Pretty spectacular, right?”
“Delicious. One of the best martinis I’ve ever tasted. Way to go, The Beverly.” Her excitement over something so small makes me feel honored to be here. And to think, if I never made the trip, I wouldn’t get to pocket this memory for eternity.
“Glad to hear it,” the bartender tells her. “Holler when you need another round.”
“Will do,” Cove says before turning toward me. “I still can’t believe you’re here,” she marvels.
“I’m here.”
“In Chicago,” she mumbles in awe, almost like she’s reminding herself.
I grin and sip my scotch. “The city of deep-dish pizza. Can you tell I’m fucking starving?”
Cove’s smile beams bright, and a gargled groan leaves her lips. “Now, you’re speaking my language, Cowboy. I can get down with deep-dish pizza. Just let me get this martini in my system, then we can get out of here.”
“Perfect. It’s a date.”
She doesn’t argue, and I take that as a positive sign. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about Cove, it’s that she speaks her mind, and that’s a trait I can appreciate. I’ve also noticed her discreetly carrying a book around wherever she goes. I recognized the worn pages of a Jane Austen novel peeking out of her clutch that night at dinner, and I immediately wondered why.
Not why does she read, but why bring it to a supposed date?
“Still hesitant about me being here?” I ask.
“Yes.” No hesitation, and again, I admire that. “Doesn’t mean I don’t like it, though.”
“It is a bit impulsive of me, huh?” I know this is crazy.I’m acting crazy, but what if I miss out on the best thing to ever happen to me, all because I’m fearful of a little foolish fun?
Regret would be my middle name.
“At this point in my life, I’m grateful for the effort. It’s more than I’m used to, and I think that’s why I still don’t know how to handle your forwardness with me. It makes me…uneasy. In a good way,” Cove notes honestly.
