“Hi,” he says, his voice deeper than I realized before.
“Hi,” I murmur back, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear.
Are those…nerves? Does this guy make me nervous? Yes, he does, but not in a bad way. More like butterflies-in-my-stomach kind of nervous. It’s just as unsettling. I can’t remember the last time someone made me feel that way. At least not since…
I give myself a mental shake, pushing all thoughts of my exout of my head. This day isn’t about Neal. It’s about me and my freedom. It’s about starting over. It’s aboutnew.
“You okay?”
I tip my head, unsure why he’s asking that.
“The adulterer,” he explains.
“Ah.” I nod. “Yes, I’m fine. I really did have it handled.”
He smirks. “Oh, I have no doubts about that, love.”
Love.
It’s so cheesy, yet it rolls off his lips so effortlessly. Not smarmy at all, like with Married Guy calling mesweetheart.
“So, what brings you here…” He trails off, looking for my name. Normally, I’d make someone work harder for it, but I find myself wanting to tell him.
“Nessa.”
I don’t know why I say it. I haven’t been called Nessa since my mom was still alive over a decade ago. Everyone I know either calls me Van or Vanessa, never just Nessa, but it feels fitting. Tonight is about starting over, so maybe Ishouldbe someone else. Besides, what’s the harm in it? It’s not like I’m ever going to see this guy again.
“Nessa.” He tests it out, and those butterflies make themselves known again. I swear I can feel his tongue shift over each letter. I like it far too much. “It’s nice to meet you, Nessa. I’m Gavin.”
Gavin.I like it. It suits him.
“Hi,” I say again, though I don’t know why. Ugh. I’m really a mess tonight, aren’t I?
He laughs, then nods at the bartender as he sets our fresh drinks in front of us. Needing something to do, I pluck a cherry from the glass and bring it to my lips, sucking the booze off before popping it into my mouth, stem and all.
Gavin never takes his eyes off me. I know because I can feel it. I think back to my college days, where my favorite party trick was tying cherry stems with my tongue, and I do just that. I stick my tongue out, showing off the finished product.
He chuckles. “Very impressive.”
“Thank you,” I say, setting the knot on my napkin, then taking a sip from my drink. “Got any tricks of your own?”
He reaches over, grabs my tied stem, and points at the tip jar sitting quite a way down the bar.
“I’ll make that shot.”
“What? There’s no way,” I argue.
He lifts his brows with a silentWatch me. Then he flicks his wrist andwhoosh—the stem lands right on the five-dollar bill sitting at the top.
“Wow. Impressive.” I toss his word back at him dryly, though I truly am impressed.
“It’s all in the wrist,” he explains with a shrug, as if making shots like that is part of his everyday life.
The only other person I’ve ever seen do something like that is Reed, though he’s always holding a hockey stick when he makes it happen.
“So,” I say after a few moments of silence. “What brings you here?”
“Work trip.”
