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Before we reach it, he stops and puts his hands on his slim waist. Tilting his head, he furrows his brow like he’s thinking very hard about something very serious.
“Say, Ava, want to join me in a beer?”
Oh. Well.
“I… I, um, okay,” I fumble.
Why did I just say yes? I don’t want to join him for a beer. I just want to go home and drown in a bucket of ice cream.
Yes, I am still freaking over my little make out session with Ethan and Jasper. I know we’re all consenting adults and stuff, but I really should not have done that.
Funny, a sex columnist feeling shame for messing around with two hot guys.
That’s how freaking lame I am.
At our usual daily gripe session, I filled Cami and Lana in on my news. They were so excited you’d think I’d won the lottery. Maybe in some ways I had.
“Your first threesome,” Lana said proudly. “The first of many.”
I shook my head. “Oh, I don’t think so—”
“Don’t be stupid, Ava. This is the chance of a lifetime. You don’t have to freaking marry them,” Cami added.
Her words echo in my brain as I follow Leo several blocks to an old Irish bar that, in spite of myself, has me charmed from the moment we walk in.
The odor of old stale beer and long-ago smoked cigarettes is steeped in the seams of the bar, and instead of being grossed out, something about it is quaint. Settling onto a barstool, I look around while my eyes adjust to the dim light. Everything is dark polished wood, and the walls are hung with illuminated signs for various beers. An old timer, seated at the end of the bar, nods in our direction, and the bartender greets us by tossing a couple paper coasters on the nicked-up wood we’re resting our elbows on.
“Hey, Leo,” he says. “The usual?”
“Please. And what would you like, Ava?” he asks, turning to me.
I look over at what seems like a hundred bottles of liquor on the wall and decide to keep it simple. “White wine, please.”
“Love this place,” Leo says, looking around fondly.
“Do you come here a lot?” I ask. “Is that how the bartender knows you?”
He nods. “Yeah. I work late a lot so often come here for a beer and burger break. Then I go back. My apartment is only about five blocks in the other direction, so when I have nothing going on, I often end up here, anyway.”
It’s so funny. New York is full of Irish bars. But I never go in them. I figured they’re for an older, crustier clientele. But it’s clear that in looking around, nothing could be further from the truth.
First chance I get, I’m dragging Cami and Lana here. They’ll protest at first, because places like this aren’t chic, but I don’t care. We could all broaden our horizons.
“You should get a burger. They’re killer here,” he says, pointing at one fresh out of the kitchen on its way to some lucky customer.
God, he’s not kidding. Cheddar cheese drips off the meat onto the bun and plate below it, and my stomach growls, protesting the lonely little side salad I had for lunch.
“Are you getting one?” I tease.
He looks at me, eyebrows raised, like I’m crazy for even asking.
Enough said.
Not ten minutes later, our own steaming burgers and fries are delivered before us. First thing I do is pop a fry in my mouth and while it’s hot as hell, I can’t help but moan over its salty, greasy deliciousness.
“So, Leo,” I ask after we’ve had a few bites each—that’s how good these damn things are— “why do you work so much? It seems you’re always there late and stuff.”
He thinks for a moment, not saying anything. Did I pry too deeply?
