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Cass orders steak—don’t gag—and the waitress disappears again, her service-industry-perfect smile polite but with an underlying tone ofyou poor, poor things. In her absence, the silence begins again.
“Are-”
“I-”
“Sorry.” A cringe-inducingly awkward laugh scratches my throat. “You go first.”
Cass grimaces like he’d rather not, but he obliges. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. Of course. I’m all good.”
He doesn’t believe me. It’s like he sees right through me, dark brows pulled together as he leans back in his seat. “You hate this.”
“No!” I practically shout; because we need more attention. “I’m sorry. This is great. I’m just distracted.” By how tight this dress is around my belly and boobs. By how the straps are digging into my shoulders. By how these heels are killing my feet, and by how I’m pretty sure a hair pin is slowly drilling its way towards my brain and God, by how much I want a disgusting, greasy meal that costs less than the water in this place probably does.
I don’t voice any of that. I don’t think I need to. Cass cocks his head, some of the life returning to his eyes as they sparkle just a little. “You’re a terrible liar.”
I don’t even have it in me to argue. “Willow says I have an open-face.”
Cass laughs as he rises. “I knew this was a bad idea but I thought…” He shakes his head, waving a hand in the air to clear whatever the end of that sentence was. “It doesn’t matter.” With that same hand, he reaches towards me. “Let’s go.”
It goes to show how desperate I am to get out of here, how quickly I slip my hand into his, let him pull me to my feet. “Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
21
CASS
“The Green Dragon?”
Holding open the door—and still feeling that immature rush ofha ha, I'm allowed in now—I usher Sunday inside the home of so many collegial memories. “We call it Greenies.”
“You come here a lot?”
“We used to. Amelia and Luna worked here when we were in college and it was this weird diner-bar hybrid. Atlas—you met Atlas, right? Gideon’s husband?” I wait for her to nod before continuing, “He bought it a few years ago and completely gutted it. Renovated the whole place.”
Upgradedis probably a better word for the way he turned the grimey college hangout into the lowkey, eclectic bar it is now, complete with moody lighting, mismatched furniture, good food, and quality alcohol that doesn’t strongly resemble paint thinner. It’s like the place has grown with its clientele, and I like it. Thank God for small miracles because it seems like Sunday does too.
I knew that restaurant was the wrong move. It was too stuffy, too formal, too silent. A great place for two people only looking to be seen together, not so great for all that getting to know each other we’re supposed to be doing. But I thought… I don’t know, I thought I should put my money where my mouth is. Show her that I’m serious when I say there are benefits to be reaped, and she’s welcome to reap them.
But Greenies was my gut instinct, and I should’ve gone with it. I’m comfortable here, and I’m not such a… novelty, I guess. People know who I am, yeah, but it’s like there’s an unspoken rule regarding my privacy here. They say hi, they occasionally ask for an autograph, but for the most part, they leave me be.
Tonight, they do just that, besides a few raised brows which I firmly believe are more because, with my current outfit, I stick out like a sore thumb. Nodding at the few people who acknowledge me, I weave through the crowd, Sunday following close behind. When we reach our destination, I move her in front of me and grasp the bar counter on either side of her.
To stop her from getting jostled, of course.
Not at all because I really like the feel of her body flush against mine.
Soft hair tickles my chest as Sunday’s head swivels to survey our surroundings while I flag down the bartender. I feel the moment she spots my favorite decoration, her surprised huff of laughter vibrating from her body through mine. “Why is there a picture of your face with a red cross through it?”
Silly, childish pride stretches my grin wider. “I got banned freshman year. The old manager hung that up in the staff room. Amelia snagged it before she quit.”
Sunday laughs again, tipping her head back to look up at me. “How did you get banned?”
“Depends who you ask.” The story changes every time it comes up. Over the years, my completely innocent Coyote Ugly moment has morphed into a Magic Mike double feature—no one cares that my jeans ripping was not part of the routine.
As if I’d have gone commando if it was.
