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But it didn’t matter because I was through playing.
When I finally disembarked from the plane and rolled my bag up the Jetway, I got a text.
Max:Did you land?
Me:Literally walking off the plane. I’m assuming you made it?
Max:Just ordered a beer at the hotel bar.
Me:Nothing has ever sounded so dreamy.
Max:Want me to have one waiting for you? Pick your poison, Steinbeck.
Me:Shiner Light Blonde if they have it, Mich Ultra if they don’t.
Max:Consider it waiting. Have you eaten?
Me:Wolfed down a pizza before boarding so I’m good.
Thankfully the bride and groom had made the arrangements in advance, so the hotel shuttle was waiting outside, and a mere twenty minutes later I was walking into the hotel lobby. After getting checked in and changing into black leggings and a Celtics sweatshirt, I was hard-core ready for that beer.
My room was right next to the stairwell, so I ran down the stairs instead of taking the elevator. And when I walked into the hotel bar, butterflies went wild in my stomach at the first thing I saw: Max grinning at me from his spot at the bar.
Even though I wasn’t into him, he was almost too attractive to look at.
Also, the man could definitely pull off gray sweatpants. Somehow Max looked like a professional athlete in his white Cubs hoodie, gray pants, and Nikes. He didn’t look scrubby at all, whereas me in sweats and a hoodie brought to mind assumptions of a hangover or rampant joblessness.
And he was wearing a pair of tortoiseshell glasses that made him look like a model, like this was the “at home” version of Max Parks in aGQspread.
“Well, hi,” he said, his eyes all over me.
“Well, hi,” I replied as he gestured to my Shiner Light Blonde on the bar. “And also God bless you.”
“Rough day?” he asked as we both climbed onto our stools.
“One fire after another,” I said, already dreading Monday morning’s follow-ups. “Which is why I’m switching to vodka after this.”
“Perhaps I’ll join you,” he said, smiling, and his eyes dipped down to my sweatshirt before returning to my face. “I had a day full of fires, as well, even from the air.”
“Maybe we should just do shots instead,” I joked. “Cut out the pesky mixers when we’re just looking to take the edge off.”
“Clever girl,” he said in a dirty voice that made me look at his lips just before he motioned to the bartender and said, “Two kamikaze shots, please.”
—
An hour later, I was buzzinghard.
We’d only done two shots, but they’d simmered inside me, mixing with the beer and my exhaustion in the most delightful way. Suddenly I was unable to make my mouth do anything other than smile as I watched Max watch the basketball game on the TV behind the bar.
“Hey, Maxxie,” I said, patting his arm. “Let’s post a sloppy selfie.”
He raised an eyebrow but didn’t look away from the game. “Sloppy?”
“Tipsy, sloppy—call it what you want, but let’s capture it.” I patted his arm again. “Wow, your arm is really solid, just like your chest. Are youswoleunder your clothes, kid?”
He did look at me then. “You just saidswoleand called mekid.”
“Yeah. So?” I grinned at the suspicious way he was peering at me, then pulled a Larry and said, “What are you, the language police?”
