Right (Wrong 2)

I have to actively stop myself from sighing as I take a seat. It’s nice in here, pretty swanky. We’re seated around a small round cocktail table in matching leather club chairs. The kind of chair you can comfortably cross your legs in, which, no, that’s not helping. I clench all the spots that so desperately want attention right now and bounce my foot.

A waiter arrives, placing bar napkins on the table top and asking what we’d like. Sawyer tilts his head in my direction, indicating I should order.

“I’d like a screwdriver,” I say, looking at Sawyer, not the waiter.

His lip curves upward in amusement before he turns his attention back to the waiter and orders himself a whiskey, neat. The waiter leaves and Sawyer rubs his chin, his elbow resting on the arm of the chair, his amused eyes on my miffed ones.

Then we talk. We talk and I’ve got to admit it’s nice, sitting here with him, even though I know this little pit stop was just designed to make me crazy. He’s not checked his cell phone once tonight, I realize, and neither have I. I’m not sure I’ve ever been on a date that didn’t involve a cell phone before.

Our drinks arrive and we both take a sip, Sawyer inquiring if the drink is to my liking. It is. He is. I like spending time with him. He’s easy to be with—it’s easy to be myself with him. He’s attentive, and I’m interested in everything he has to say. The chemistry, this pull I feel towards him, I can’t put into words. It’s almost too good to be true. And that therein is my fear. What if we’re sexually incompatible? It happens.

I take another sip of my drink and contemplate downing it in one gulp. But no. That’d get me tipsy and I’m pretty sure Sawyer will not put out if I’m anything close to drunk. I tap my finger against the side of the glass and estimate that it’s going to take at least twenty minutes for us to finish these drinks. Then a worse thought occurs to me. What if he orders another round and we’re stuck in here for an hour or longer? I wrinkle my nose and set the glass down on the table, then lean in closer to Sawyer, my fingers stroking the arm of the chair, and drop my voice.

“It’s so loud in here. Maybe we should go someplace quieter,” I suggest. But I realize too late, as it’s coming out of my mouth, that it’s not too loud in here. In fact, I’d describe the sound level as distinctly subdued. Damn it, I can’t take it back, I already said it. Maybe he hasn’t noticed how quiet it is, so I add, “Don’t you think?” in a whisper.

He has to bite his lip to keep from laughing. I’m watching him—he’s physically rolled his lip inward to restrain himself.

“Everly?” He leans in closer, his voice soft, seductive.

“Yes?”

“Did you want to be done talking now?”

I nod, relieved. “Yes.” I sit up a little straighter, ready to grab my bag and hoof it out of here. He relaxes, sitting back in his chair. I stifle a groan.

“You’re awfully anxious to get in my pants, Boots.”

I slump back into the very comfortable chair and cross my arms, shrugging. “You might be terrible in bed,” I admit.

He coughs and that turns into a laugh that he covers with his fist. “Might I?”

I nod, my mood serious. “You might.”

“Your seduction techniques are something, Everly.”

Oh, my God. He’s not denying it. Maybe he has an erectile dysfunction. He’s a premature ejaculator. Or he’s got a micropenis. Or he’s a eunuch. That’d be just my luck, wouldn’t it? Wait, I could feel his erection this afternoon in his office. So scratch those last two worries. Still, so many possibilities. I’ve read articles.