“I’ll drink to that,” I say gently. “But… why bring a date at all?”
He hesitates for a moment. “I don’t particularly like those events. The galas, the parties. I don’t do well with crowds, or cameras, or people in my face asking questions I don’t know how to answer. I get overwhelmed.”
“You get anxious?”
“Yeah,” he admits, looking away. “It just helps to have someone there. It doesn’t even matter who, really. Just something to hold on to.”
That’s when it all clicks for me. The moodiness. The silence.
“You’re not brooding,” I say, smiling a little. “You’re shy.”
“Don’t say it like that,” he groans.
“Like what?”
“Like it’s cute.”
“I mean, it kind of is.”
He looks at me like he wants to argue, but all he can do is fight back a smile. “You’re exhausting.”
“Yeah? Well, you’re still bossy.” I swirl the last bit of beer in my glass and take a final sip.
“Captain,” he reminds me again. He meets my eyes, and for a second I forget how to breathe. There’s something about the way he looks at me when he’s not trying to be an ass. Oliver is quiet for amoment. He shifts in his seat, pivoting toward me, locking his eyes on mine. “I’m sorry, Addison.”
I blink. “For what?”
“Your first day. The fake directions,” he says, shaking his head. “I embarrassed you on purpose. I wanted to make you feel like you didn’t belong. But now… now I realize I did the same thing Matt did. I made you feel small.”
My throat tightens unexpectedly. “Thank you, Oliver,” I say softly. He nods but doesn’t respond. I lean back in my seat and smirk. “Does this mean you’re ready to embrace me as the club’s PR manager?”
He snorts. “It means I’m ready totolerateyou as the club’s PR manager.”
“Progress,” I say, raising my glass.
“Barely,” he says, clinking his glass against mine.
When I look up, he’s smiling, and this time, it actually reaches his eyes.
Once both beers are empty, I reach into my purse and pull out my card, setting it down on the bar.
“Alright. Apology pints are on me.”
He blinks. “I thought you were joking.”
“I would never joke about beer.”
“You really don’t have to.”
“I know.” I nod. “I want to.”
I tap my card against the machine, and the bartender slides a receipt to me. I stare at it like it’s written in hieroglyphics.
“What’s wrong?” Oliver asks me.
“Where do I add the tip?”
Oliver chokes on a laugh. “You don’t.”
