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He pulls up to my house right on time. He gets out of the car, but I’m already through the door and on the sidewalk.
He gets this funny look in his eyes when he sees me, gaze flicking over my leggings and coat.
“Hey, you.”
“I’m so excited to not be working tonight, I can’t even tell you.”
“You usually work nights?”
“The bakery closes at three, but then I do all my bookkeeping and social media stuff after. Sometimes it takes a while. Anyway, let’s go!”
He dips his head before opening the passenger side door. “Let’s.”
On the ride to Kate’s, I can’t tell what kind of mood Brooks is in. He seems quieter than usual, so I offer to put on the next episode of The Mountain Murders. Maybe the distraction will help?
“Yes,” he says on a relieved exhale.
It’s dark when we arrive at Kate’s, but the parking lot is packed. Brooks’s shoes make a flinty sound on the pavement as we head for the entrance.
Walking beside him, I realize just how intimidatingly big he is. He’s got over six inches on me, with shoulders and arms that fill out his jacket in a way that makes my lungs malfunction.
He keeps his hands in his pockets and hangs his head, gaze fixed on his feet. He’s in his feelings, that much is obvious.
Ignoring a small voice inside me that says careful, honey, I slide my hand into the crook of his elbow. My body immediately lights up at the contact with his heat. His solidity.
His footsteps falter for a beat. My stomach somersaults. Did I overstep? Am I coming on too strong, even though I’m not trying to come on to him at all?
But then he draws his arm in, squeezing my hand between his bicep and side. He doesn’t say anything, just holds me against him like that, close enough that our legs brush as he starts to walk again, a bit more slowly this time. His strides are smaller. Is he doing that to make sure I’m able to keep up with him?
Now it’s my heart doing somersaults. Tension appears between my thighs. Slight, but very much there.
Careful.
Brooks reaches for the door and holds it open for me, eyes meeting mine for a split second. “I hope you’re ready for this.”
“I’m ready.”
He lets my hand go. I resist the urge to draw it across his middle as I pass.
Entering Kate’s is like going back in time. The smells of popcorn and disinfectant fill the air, and the video games lined up against a nearby wall chirp, beep, and ring. A DJ is set up on the far side of the rink, and a guy behind the concessions counter is pouring beers from a tap shaped like a giant jalapeño. I recognize it as one of my favorite beers from a local brewery, a pale ale with just a hint of peppery heat.
I nearly jump when the speakers overhead vibrate with the sparkly beat of a new song. It’s Mariah Carey’s “Fantasy”, and it just so happens to be an all-time favorite of mine.
I smile, a little shiver of anticipation darting up my spine. Being able to have a beer at the rink is new, but the excitement I feel being here is not. I forgot how much freaking fun roller skating is.
I think I forgot how much fun it is to just be out with a friend, doing something ridiculous, instead of picking up guys at a hole-in-the-wall bar uptown. Maybe this is what I need. Time not only spent away from work, but spent doing something fun with people I really enjoy being around.
Brooks is behind me, helping me out of my coat. “This all right?”
“Better than all right. This is awesome.”
His lips twitch. “Beer first, then skates?”
“You read my mind.”
We wait in line at the concession stand. When it’s finally our turn, Brooks motions to me to order first.
“Definitely the Birdsong Jalapeño ale, please.”
Brooks’s brows pop up. “Jalapeño beer?”
“You like spice?”
“I love spice.”
“You like beer?”
“I love beer.”
I smile. “Then you’ll love this. It sounds weird, but it’s actually delicious.”
“Done.”
I try to pay, but Brooks beats me to it, tapping his Platinum American Express to the reader before I can dig a rumpled twenty out of my bag. We sip our beers while we wait in line for skates. Brooks licks his lips. “That is delicious.”
“Right?” I reply, shimmying my hips a little when The Bee Gees come on. The music is slowly getting louder, the bass thumping in my breastbone. “I went to the Birdsong brewery recently. They said every batch is different—some are spicier than others. It all depends on the heat of the jalapeños they use.”
He takes a long, thirsty sip. “This one’s pretty spicy.”
“Don’t be a spice wimp.”
His gaze lights up. It’s partly teasing, part glittering challenge. “We’ll see who’s a wimp when we get out on the rink.”
