I squirm inside my skin, flustered by his overt flirting... or maybe it’s that I can feel Christine’s eyes on me, studying my body language like a forensic psychologist. To distract myself, I take a deep swallow of my drink—then immediately start coughing, nearly spitting it all back out.Good lord, this is strong.It tastes like battery acid. With a hint of orange.
Jack looks concerned. “Are you okay?”
My eyes are stinging. “Oh, fine,” I manage to splutter, before lightning strikes. “Actually, you know what? I got this for you.”Two birds, one stone.
His eyebrows lift. “For me?”
Always have a drink waiting when he walks in. After a hard day’s work, he’ll appreciate you anticipating his needs.
“Yeah, you know—you’ve had a long day, I’m sure you could use a drink. You like bourbon, right?” I present it to him as earnestly as an engagement ring.
He blinks at me, a twelve-point buck frozen in headlights. “I don’t want to take your drink,” he protests, casting Greg an uneasy glance. “I’ll just order something once we sit down.”
“No no, I insist. Really.” I hold it out until he’s reluctantly forced to take it.
I watch the internal battle play out on his face before etiquette wins out. “Alright. Well, thank you very much,” he says, raising the glass in cheers and taking a hearty swig.Better him than me.
“Would you look at that? How come you never have a drink waiting for me?” Greg ribs Christine.
She folds her arms across her chest. “Um, maybe because you get home from work before I do? Why don’t you ever have a drink waiting forme?”
There’s an awkward pause. “Uh... now that we’re all here, why don’t we go see if our table is ready?” Greg suggests brightly. “Can I carry your purse for you, honey?”
He throws a painedHelp!look over his shoulder as he steers Christine toward the host’s stand, and Jack laughs quietly as we follow a few paces behind them.
“Told you they’re entertaining.”
“You did. They seem great, though.” He leads me forward with a hand to my back, then dips his head toward mine. “You look very nice tonight.”
Maybe he has a naughty librarian fetish.“Thanks. You don’t look so bad yourself.”
It’s an understatement. He’s dressed similarly to how he was at the bar that first night, in full business attire: white button-down, perfectly coordinated striped tie, and a steel-gray suit that’s cut as impeccably as his hair. With his high-voltage smile and godlike bone structure, he’s easily the best-looking guy in this restaurant. Maybe for miles.
He has an ugly soul, I remind myself.
“I didn’t picture Brawler as the type of office where people dress up for work,” I confess as we navigate our waythrough the restaurant’s main dining room. In my mind, Brawler’s headquarters are akin to a grimy frat house, full of degenerate men in shapeless hoodies and sporting a sticky, beer-stained floor.
“It isn’t, but these days I’m constantly in meetings with investors and finance people,” he says as we arrive at our table. “Not exactly a jeans crowd.” I thank him as he pulls out my chair, ending up with him on my left and Christine to my right.
As everyone gets seated and settled I take a look around the restaurant, appreciating the vibe of the place, the decor a blend of modern industrial and traditional steakhouse. There’s exposed brick and funky oversized chandeliers made of metal and glass, but the comfy leather chairs and moody lighting ensure the overall feel is cozy, not cold.
“Jack, thanks so much for getting us the reservation here,” Christine says, accepting a menu from the hostess. “I feel very VIP.”
“It’s no big deal,” Jack says, brushing off the praise. “A friend of a friend runs the parent restaurant group. All I did was make a phone call.”
This time I’m the one studiously ignoring the pointed looks Greg’s beaming across the table.Alright, I get it. The man has access to perks.
“Well, it’s a big deal for us,” Christine continues. “We don’t get out much.”
“It’s your anniversary, you deserve to celebrate in style,” Jack says graciously, tapping his knife on his water glass in jest. “How many years?”
“Eight, but we’ve been together for twelve.” They moon at each other like horny honeymooners and I can’t help feeling a pang of envy.
I can barely remember a time when Christine and Greg weren’t together, which basically means I’ve idolized their relationship for a decade. They’re truly best friends—the embodiment of #couplegoals—as well-matched and secure in their relationship as Cory and Topanga. In fact, I blame them for giving me unrealistic expectations. Because of them, I always assumed I’d meet my soul mate in college and live happily ever after, too. Talk about a letdown.
“Your daughters are adorable,” Jack says as he unfurls his napkin. “Cassidy showed me some photos.”
“Meh, they’re alright,” Christine jokes. “They’re also—”
