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Our eyes lock and it’s either the alcohol swishing in my brain or the heated gaze in his gray soulful eyes with the speck of blue and a tinge of purple under these lights that has my knees going weak. I don’t feel so drunk that I can’t stand up straight. Nope, it's his eyes. And his hand, that’s now cupping my chin.
“Hey! You guys want to head out?” Layla comes up to us, breaking the tension and the sizzling cracks bouncing between us.
Nick’s hand immediately falls, but I still feel it on my skin.
“Yes!” Eagerly, I push away from him, from the bar, away from the crowd, and back to our table to get my bag.
Greg is still there signing the check.
“How much do I owe you?” I rummage through my bag for my wallet.
“Nothing. I’m making Nick pay for you.” He gives me a wink.
I’m not going to argue, but I throw down two twenties and walk away. I don’t want to owe Nick Miller or Greg Hurst anything.
The chilly air hits me as soon as I walk out the door. I forgot my jacket inside. I turn around to get it and slam right into a solid chest.
I know it’s him without looking up. I know his scent and the feel of his solid muscles like I know my own hands.
“You ran out without your jacket.” Nick holds it up for me to put on.
I slide my arms through the sleeves, letting him be a gentleman.
Intoxicated me is relishing in his gesture and cooing over it. I can’t even hide the stupid grin on my face.
“Thanks,” I say over my shoulder, trying to suppress the glee I’m feeling.
It’s like a drunken wave hit me as soon as I walked out into the cold.
All those fucking shots.
I feel like I’m standing in the ocean trying to keep myself straight.
“Where’d you park?” He asks, looking around the parking lot.
I look out for Layla’s car, but I have no idea. I was looking at my phone texting when we pulled in and I got out. There are too many trucks in the lot and I can’t find Layla’s little Civic anywhere.
“I don’t know.” I look back to find Layla.
“She went to the restroom. Greg is waiting for her. We can wait here.” Nick offers.
I shiver. It’s already getting too cold for the light denim jacket I wore.
Nick notices.
“Cold?” He wraps his arm around my shoulders.
I’m happy for his heat, but his touch is electrifying every nerve in my body.
Those damn shots.
“Does Layla really drive a stick shift?” He asks, still holding me close under his arm.
“No. It’s a joke. I can’t drive. Don’t have my license.” I laugh with a shrug.
Tons of people where I’m from don’t drive. There’s just no need to.
“Last year I told a guy I was seeing that I couldn’t drive a stick to get out of driving without being embarrassed, but it was an automatic so I just looked like an idiot,” I explain, laughing at the memory. “Layla wouldn’t let me live it down.”
