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He glances over, and there’s an electric jolt when our gazes connect. It feels like my lungs are being squeezed as he studies my face, searching for sincerity.
That’s all he’ll find.
I have no interest in spilling something he wants to keep secret.
Kyle nods and climbs out of the truck. Most of the people loitering outside glance over at the sound of his door slamming shut.
I pull in a deep breath. I might be accustomed to being around celebrities, but those encounters have always taken place in select, exclusive environments. Never out in public or in the midst of a crowd.
The door on my side suddenly opens.
I quickly unbuckle my seat belt, then turn to face Kyle, who’s holding the door open while wearing an expectant expression. “What are you doing?”
“Opening your door,” Kyle responds in aduhtone.
A blush burns my cheeks, and I’m sure the flush is telling him everything I’m not.
No guy has ever opened a car door for me before. In my exes’ defense, we were usually in the city, taking public transit. Opportunities were rare.
But therewereopportunities, and not a single one of them took it.
I clear my throat, then hop down onto the dirt awkwardly. The cute wedges I wore don’t help with my balance. I have to grab the door to remain vertical. “Uh, thanks.”
“Uh-huh.” There’s a lilt to Kyle’s voice that suggests he might be smiling, but I don’t glance behind to confirm.
I stride toward the double doors that lead into Wagon Wheel like I’ve been here before, passing a huddle of people who don’t look old enough to be at a bar and a couple of older men I avoid eye contact with. The cynical New Yorker in me, I guess. Cigarette smoke swirls around in the night air as I walk.
Once I’m inside the bar, I’m hit with a wave of activity.
The layout is simple. One long bar stretches the full length of the building. Hundreds of bottles are perched on the shelves installed behind, the top couple of rows covered with a layer of dust visible from here. Stools line the opposite side of the bar top, all of them filled. There’s a band playing in one corner, a cleared section of hardwood filled with laughing, dancing couples. Tables are scattered around the remaining space, every single one of them occupied.
This is the place to be in Oak Grove, obviously.
More people are packed in here than I estimated the town population to be.
And every single one of them appears thrilled to be here. There’s no sign of the aloofness or the posturing that filled the club I went to with Serena and Lauren last weekend. No agenda as everyone tries to figure out each other’s intentions or present a certain version of themselves.
The shift in atmosphere is surprising. Nice.
Kyle passes my frozen figure, walking deeper into the bar with the easy assurance of someone who’s done this many times before. After a beat, I follow, registering the eyes that swing this way.
Everyone in here had enjoyment in common.
Now, it’s a focus on Kyle.
There’s no stampede. No rush of activity.
It’s a more subtle attention, a ripple of notice, like registering what the most popular kid in school does because they carry an innate importance, but not being brave enough to enter their orbit.
I’m so focused on taking in the surroundings that it’s a surprise when Kyle stops at a table. I halt, too, curiously studying the group clustered around it. A mix of men and women, all smiling and exuberant.
Calls of, “Hey, Spencer!” and, “Finally, man!” surround us as the entire table’s attention swings to the guy in front of me.
And I realize that Kylewasthe most popular kid in school. Still is, it seems.
Energy shifts in the air to center around Kyle as he greets his friends. It’s a large group, probably a dozen people in total. A blur of unfamiliar faces.
I’m not shy, but I keep a close circle. Outside of work and my roommates, there are only a handful of good friends I keep in touch with from high school and college.
