He was just the sort of person that couldn’t go somewhere without being checked out, and heads immediately swiveled our way. There was music playing, some sort of electronica that sounded like it had been mixed with jazz. The whole atmosphere felt very elegant and grown up; this certainly wasn’t Failte’s, the dive bar that Caroline and I most often frequented.
“You want a table or you want to sit at the bar?” Ian asked.
The tables were circular and small, meant for two, maybe three people. I let my gaze travel around the long, narrow space and saw that every table was already taken.
“It doesn’t look like there are any tables available,” I said.
“Doesn’t matter. I can get us one.”
“The bar is fine.”
I didn’t want to be that person who walked into a place and got special treatment for no good reason. Maybe Ian had a reason, but I certainly didn’t.
I followed him over to the bar where there were a few empty stools.
“So you’ve never been here before?” he asked.
“No,” I said, sliding onto the seat. “I haven’t. It looks pretty nice, though.”
“It is; if you like this frou-frou sort of thing.”
The way he said it, I couldn’t be sure if he was into it or actually didn’t like it at all. But then the bartender sauntered over, a beautiful woman with high cheekbones and full lips, and gave Ian a look that told me she knew him quite well, which meant he probably had been here a number of times before.
“What’s your poison?” he said to me. “Shellie here makes a great flirtini.”
“Flirt, you mean,” she said, reaching out to brush her fingertips lightly against his forearm. I looked at his face to see if he would be bothered by this but then realized how completely stupid that was—what guy would be bothered by a woman like that making physical contact?
“Um, sure, I’ll try that.”
Shellie’s eyes landed on me, took in my boring office outfit, my hair still pulled back into a ponytail. Why didn’t I at least pull it out of the elastic and muss it up a little before we’d come in?
“I’d normally ask to see some I.D. first,” she said, “but since you’re with Ian, that won’t be necessary.” She’d gone back to looking at him, making it sound like it was actually him she was doing the favor for.
“Shellie, you’re too kind,” he said.
She winked. “You’ll have to make it up to me later.”
I felt my face get red. Ian seemed completely oblivious and continued to talk to Shellie while she mixed up the drinks. I had no idea about the people they were talking about, or the little inside jokes they were making that cracked both of them up. Obviously, this had been a bad idea. I was not one of these people; I did not belong in a place like this. I was way out of my league.
But then Shellie came over and slid my glass across the smooth counter to me, and one in front of Ian. He casually slung his arm over my shoulders as he picked up his glass, waiting for me to pick up my own. There was a wedge of pineapple on the rim and a maraschino cherry floating in the bubbly amber liquid. It looked like beer, in a martini glass. I picked up my glass, clinked it together with his, and we both took a sip.
“Oh!” I said after I’d swallowed. The drink was sweet and bubbly and tasted nothing like I’d been expecting. “That’s really good! What’s in it?”
“Pineapple juice, champagne, vodka,” Shellie said.
“And some extra lovin’, of course, because Shellie made it.”
Ian pulled out a handful of bills and laid them on the counter for her. “Thanks, sweetheart,” she said, sweeping them up. She went over to the cash register, and when she was done there, I expected that she was going to come back over to us, but she didn’t; there was another customer waiting for a drink, so she went to help him instead. I half-listened as he ordered a Manh
attan; Shellie was just as flirty with him as she had been with Ian. Maybe that’s just how she was.
I took another sip of my drink, and then another. I could barely taste the vodka at all. Actually, I couldn’t really; it was just like drinking a glass of fizzy juice. My face felt warm, and I suddenly found myself smiling, on the verge of laughter, even though no one had said anything funny.
“So,” I said, feeling emboldened by the alcohol. “Why did you bring me here?”
He took another sip of his drink and gave me an amused look. “Why did I bring you here? Ever hear of getting drinks after work? That’s something I rather enjoy doing. Also, it’s not always possible to really get to know someone during the workday; there’s always some sort of distraction or something going on. I like to get to know my employees.”
I realized that he had shifted on the bar stool and his knee was now resting against mine. Had he done that on purpose? Did he even realize it?