“No. I just—” He runs a hand through his hair. “He seems intense. The way he is with you. Very interested.”
Interested. Like that’s a bad thing. Like paying attention to your girlfriend is somehow suspicious or wrong.
“That’s called caring about someone. You should try it sometime.”
Before Garrett can respond, Rodriguez appears. He doesn’t say anything at first, just reaches for my hand and laces our fingers together.
Then he lifts our joined hands and presses his lips to my knuckles.
It’s not a quick gesture. He takes his time with it, slow enough that I can feel the exact shape of his lips. My fingers curl involuntarily, like my hand is trying to hold onto the feeling.
He lowers our hands but doesn’t let go, keeping them linked between us.
“Hey,” he says to Garrett, like he’s just noticing him. “You’re Garrett? Owen’s friend?”
“Yeah.”
“Cool, cool.” Rodriguez’s thumb starts tracing small circles on the back of my hand. “You were sitting with Melissa last night? The blonde?”
“My fiancée, yeah.”
“Oh right, congrats on that.” Rodriguez takes a sip of his beer with his free hand. “Although, maybe pick a date soon. Don’t want to let her get away, too. Right?”
Garrett raises his eyebrows and blinks, momentarily stunned. “Uh, no, I guess not.”
“Anyway, we should probably rejoin the group.” Rodriguez looks down at me, and the way he’s looking at me makes my throat go tight. “Ready?”
I nod because I can’t trust my voice yet. We walk away and I realize that he hasn’t let go of my hand.
“Was that too much?” Rodriguez asks when we’re out of earshot.
“Peeing on me to mark your territory would have been less obvious.”
“I did not, okay, maybe a little. But did you see his face?”
“Rodriguez.”
“What? He was trying to make you feel bad about moving on. Like you’re supposed to wait some appropriate mourning period before dating again. Fuck that. And fuck him.”
He steers me closer to the front of the group, near where the guide is droning on about some particular type of fermentation, and I let him because my brain is still catching up to what just happened.The casual way he touched me. The deliberate kiss to my hand. The slight edge in his voice when he spoke to Garrett.
He’s not just playing the part. He’s invested in making Garrett believe it.
Or maybe making Garrett hurt.
I should probably care about the difference, but right now I’m just trying to process the feeling of his mouth against my skin and what it means that I didn’t want him to stop.
An hourlater we’re in the tasting room. Someone ordered appetizers, wings and loaded fries and things that soak up alcohol. The conversations have gotten louder, everyone pleasantly buzzed from too many samples.
Rodriguez is in the middle of a story about a road trip gone wrong, doing voices and gestures, and has everyone laughing. Owen’s friends, my cousins, even my dad is grinning at something he said.
My dad catches my eye from across the room and gives me a nod. Approval. Great. Rodriguez has won over my father in less than twenty-four hours.
“He’s good people,” my dad says, walking over to stand next to me. “Knows his hockey, doesn’t BS about what he doesn’t know. You could do worse.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“I’m just saying.” He takes a sip. “After Garrett...” He doesn’t finish the sentence. “This one seems more solid. More present.”
