The Bookworm's Guide to Flirting (The Bookworm's Guide 3)

Hey, I was no fan of sports bars. But if they had good food…

Dylan beat me to the door and held it open for me. I gave him a small smile and walked through into the lively bar that smelled like chicken wings and fries.

My stomach rumbled in response.

Dylan led me through the crowds toward a small table that had just been vacated literally seconds earlier. He shoved their trash and dishes to one side, then pushed a stool in my direction.

I took the seat and looked around the bar. It really was nothing special, just your standard sports bar. Lots of tables, a huge bar, booths with little TVs so you could watch close up, large flatscreen TVs on the walls showing different games—basically hell for a bookworm.

But the food did smell great, so I’d make it work.

Although I was going to need someone to come wipe this sticky table.

Like, now.

“What’s wrong with you?”

I touched the table with the tip of my glittery nail. “Sticky.”

Dylan rolled his eyes. “Someone will be by soon enough to clean it. Stop being fussy.”

“Fussy? No. You know why I don’t go to sports bars? This.” I motioned to the table. “You know what doesn’t have sticky tables?”

“I’m sure you’re about to tell me.”

“Libraries. Libraries don’t have sticky tables.”

“Libraries also don’t have large TVs to watch sports. Everywhere has their downfall.”

“Oh, no. You’re misunderstanding. That’s why I like libraries.”

“Does White Peak even have a library?” he questioned, just in time for a waitress in a tight white tee bearing the bar’s logo to come over.

She was annoyingly pretty. Long, dark hair that was pulled up into a high pony, but her hair was long enough that it still curled over her shoulders. Her red lipstick was a shade I was far too pale to pull off, and her fake eyelashes were so expertly done that no man would ever realize that was the result of a talented cosmetologist and not MaxFactor’s finest budget mascara.

Well, the clump in the corner of her right eye would probably give it away.

Ding ding ding, we have a bitch in the building.

“Let me clear this for you,” she said, tucking her notepad into an apron that was barely as long as her skirt. “Can I bring you some drinks?”

Yes. She could bring me a bottle of vodka.

“I’ll have the…” I leaned into the sticky menu. “Lemon vodka thing.”

“The lemon-vodka-cello?”

Was that a play on Limoncello?

It wasn’t cute.

“Yeah, that.” I leaned away from germ central.

Dylan shot me an amused look. “I’ll have a Coors Light and an ice water, please. And a wet wipe so my roommate doesn’t implode from some sticky beer fingers.”

I was going to kill him.

The waitress—whose name was Rosie—beamed at him and whipped out her pad to note it down. “You got it. Are you ready to order food yet, or would you like to do that after I bring you drinks?”

“I think we’ll wait until our drinks are here and she can pick up the menu without worrying she’ll get a cold.”

Yep.

I was soooo going to kill him while he slept.

“Sleep with one eye open,” I muttered, pulling my phone from my purse. “I know where you sleep.”

“What if I don’t sleep there tonight?” He smirked.

I side-eyed him. “You have to come back eventually. I’ll get you then.”

Laughing, he slid off his stool. “I’m using the toilet. I’ll be right back.”

I hated it when he said that. That he was using the toilet. What was wrong with bathroom? Or restroom? Couldn’t he just say that?

Ugh.

I opened my texts and the chat with the girls.

ME: The waitress is flirting with Dylan.

Their response was much as I’d expected. A bunch of laughing face emojis followed by more laughing face emojis.

ME: Shut up.

HOLLEY: Are you JEALOUS?

ME: Of the slutty waitress? No.

KINSLEY: You’re jealous.

ME: I don’t get jealous.

HOLLEY: I beg to differ. You’re jealous. There’s no other reason for you to text us.

KINSLEY: Maybe Dylan teaching you to flirt is a bad idea. Seems like you only want to flirt with him.

ME: I do not want to flirt with Dylan.

ME: And I am not jealous.

KINSLEY: So jealous.

HOLLEY: SO JEALOUS.

ME: Oh, fuck off.

I huffed and shoved my phone back into my purse. The waitress came back and cleaned the table, then quickly disappeared again only to return with our drinks. She set them down on the now thankfully not-sticky surface and looked to me.

“Are you ready to order, or are you waiting for your date to come back?”

“He’s not my date,” I said with a little too much bite.

What? Dylan had already called me his roommate in front of her.

I knew a fishing line when I saw one.

“Right. Roommate, wasn’t it? Sorry.” The quirk of her lips said she was the farthest thing from sorry. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

I’m sure.