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I take my internal question and shelve it for later. First, I have to be a mom.
But, seriously,what’s a double?
seventeen
“WHISKEY. NEAT,” WILL SAYSas he places a bottle of Old Grand-Dad Bourbon Whiskey on the table.
“She bought you a bottle?” I muse from my seat in the far corner of the bar.
“Tara paid for my drink, and then I bought this from the bar.”
“Bottles are crazy overpriced when you buy them at restaurants and bars. I know cops are paid handsomely, but you seem to live a lavish lifestyle. My expensive haircut and now a bottle of whiskey you probably paid ten times the normal amount for. I’m sure you have bills. A car. A mortgage. Do you have a mortgage? That’s a bit presumptuous of me to ask. Forget that question.”
Will chuckles as he opens the bottle. “We’ve spent how many evenings together, talking about bullshit in your kitchen, and tonight, you’re nervous?”
“Three evenings, to be exact, and I’m not nervous. Why would you say that?” I ask like this is a ridiculous notion.
He pours whiskey into the two lowball glasses he walked over from the bar. It’s not a lot. The liquid fills maybe an inch.
“You ramble when you’re nervous. I’ve always found it cute as hell. And, yes, I have a mortgage.”
“My rambling is not cute. And I don’t ramble. I overspeak. There’s a difference. And I’m not nervous. What’s there to be nervous about? Tara and Kent have been glued to one another since we got here, and you and I are just hanging out, enjoying some whiskey and conversation, like we have many times already, whether it be in my home, a venue—”
“A jail cell.” Will slides my glass over to me, and I take a look at the amber liquid with a scowl.
“You don’t have to drink it,” he says. “I told you I’d get you a rosé.”
I wave a hand in the air. “No, no. I want to try whiskey, so I’m gonna give it a whirl and put some hair on my chest.”
His gives a devilish smirk as he leans back in his seat, graceful yet masculine.
“Cheers,” he says as he raises his glass to his lips.
I lift mine in the air and take a sip. It’s smoky, malty, and bitter compared to my sweet wine preference.
I must be making a face because he asks, “No good?”
“I’m okay. I think it’s one of those drinks I need to settle into after a few sips.”
For the next hour, I drink slowly while Will and I talk about our week. It’s ridiculous he thought I was nervous around him when we’ve fallen into a comfortable relationship. I love hearing his work stories. Many of them have me laughing, to the point I want to cry. Even the horrible nights and dangerous situations, he seems to find a way to lighten them into a story.
In turn, I always have something to tell him about an erratic bride, another wedding shenanigan, or a story about the kids. No matter what I say, he always seems interested, like the tale I’m telling him is what he’s waited all week to hear.
There’s a lull in our conversation, so I take a look around the room for Tara and Kent. They’re currently on the dance floor, getting their country on. I know for a fact that Tara hates country music, so she must really like Kent if she’s out there, learning a line dance, which looks like a honky-tonk version of the Electric Slide.
“She’s in a fit of giggles out there, so there must be something going right,” I say, motioning toward our friends. “I hope Kent turns out be a winner. Despite her bravado, Tara is sensitive. She’s also incredibly resilient.”
“I can tell there’s a story.”
“She was left at the altar.”
Will’s eyes widen. “You mean, literally at the altar or before the date was even set, like …” His voice trails off.
“She was in a white dress and having her pictures taken when the groom called and apologized because he got cold feet.”
“That’s horrible.”
“It was. First, she bawled her eyes out. Next, she got angry. Likechampagne flute breakingangry. Made a few rage-filled phone calls and was moments away from purchasing a billboard along the highway to display her ex-fiancé’s face and the wordslying scumbag coward.
