Before Him

“April,” I burst out, my gaze swinging to her. “I-I have a boner to pick with you!”

The table falls quiet and, oh my God, please, dear Lord—have mercy baby Jesus. Just open the ground and let the earth swallow me whole! I wrap my hands around the base of my glass, my gaze dipping reproachfully to its contents. Isn’t alcohol supposed to make everything easier?

Of course, the silence doesn’t last.

“And what boner would that be, Miss Kennedy?” April cackles, her eyes flitting Roman’s way. And her teasing just opens up the floodgates as both sets of friends begin to laugh and whoop.

“That was a bit of a mouthful,” says Johno with way too much delight.

“That’s what she said!” the girls chorus, like a scene from some cheesy rom-com.

I press my head in my hands and groan, embarrassed beyond belief.

“Hang on, hang on, she said it was an accident,” Simmo offers, setting up the rest of his joke. “Sounds a bit hard to swallow, though.”

“It’s true that penis owning has its ups and downs,” says someone else.

“And it can be hard,” answers April with a shrug. “At least, sometimes.”

“And sometimes, it can be a real pain in the ass!” squeals Chelsea, probably more as an advertisement than an outright invitation at this point.

But then warm fingers loop my wrist, encouraging me to lower my hands. “Come on.” Roman’s expression is sweet as he tugs. “Let’s get you another drink. Looks like you’re not enjoying that one.”

Oh my, you gorgeously lovely man, I think as we escape the scene of my crimes, leaving their teasing jeers behind.

The light is less moody at the bar, and as I stare up at him, I find the colour of his eyes remind me of twilight skies. Dark blue with flecks of pale grey, a lighter blue circles his pupils. That’s what I mean by twilight, that magical moment when light and dark touch the sky at the same time.

So beautiful.

He glances down the length of the polished mahogany, and I notice how his dark brows are almost sharp, how they seem to mirror his cheekbones. Add in a straight nose, and the man is all sharp angles until the eye is drawn to his mouth. It’s not full exactly, but soft. Inviting. It’s the kind of mouth a girl might become a little obsessed about.

“Sorry?” Damn, what did he ask?

Note to self: try not to stare when you think he won’t notice. Because he has.

“A drink.” He smiles, and boy, does he have a lot of smiles. This one is kind of telling. “What would you like?”

“Thank you. For rescuing me from that back there.” I place my purse on the bar as my gaze darts in the direction of the table full of our friends, the words kind of tumbling from my mouth. I hate being teased. I mean, I’m sure no one really likes it, but I’m not very comfortable in my own skin, to begin with.

Surprise flits across his face before he answers with a diffident shrug. “It was kind of on the same level as pinging bra straps. And I went to an all-boys school.” I find myself laughing as his gaze narrows consideringly. “I reckon you’re a beer kind of girl.”

“Beer?” I repeat, my inflexion not so pleasant. “Do I like pumpkin lattes, too?”

“No one really likes pumpkin lattes. But beer, real people like beer.”

“Oh, sure. Real people.” I turn to face the bar, feeling oddly insulted by his assessment. I guess he has beer tastes, not champagne, I think, trying hard not to glance Chelsea’s way. “Real people like me.” I press my hand to my clutch, fighting the urge to leave, that familiar sense of never being enough creeping back in. Lost in my thoughts, I startle at the warmth of his hand over mine.

“That didn’t come out right,” he says, his voice kind of low and sandpapery. It lights a tiny flare in the pit of my stomach. “You seem real, as in genuine. Even if you do look like a dream.”

The flare becomes all sparkle at the way he’s looking at me like he’s really paying attention. Hot looks are wonderful but being seen is much more thrilling. He clears his throat, summoning the bartender by sleight of hand. Or telepathy. Or how confident people always seem to manage it. Me? I’m still trying to process the heat of his hand as his fingers curl over mine.

“Do you want to tell me what you’d like to drink, or should I keep making an arse of myself?”

“I’d welcome anyone to take my usual place,” I add with a shy smile.

“You can’t go wrong with classic cocktails. None of this appletini shit.”

“I do drink beer,” I admit quietly.

“Not tonight.” His hand squeezes mine. “I think you’re an Old Fashioned kind of girl.”