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“Uh oh, pulling out my government name.”

“When the situation calls for it.” I can hear his charming smile through the phone and I can’t resist.

“Okay,onedrink,” I say firmly with emphasis on the one.

“Cool. We all know you’re a shots kind of girl anyway.”

“Jonas!”

“I’ll order the first round now. Get your ass down here!” he quickly shouts, before the line goes dead.

I momentarily regret this decision when I have to strip from my sweatpants—and not just any sweatpants, butthesweatpants. The holy grail of sweatpants. They’re perfectly worn in and feel like a warm hug on a cozy raining evening. If the hug was on your ass. I don’t let myself dwell on it. I quickly swap my sweats for a pair of jeans, throw on a little black tank top, and grab my keys from where they hang on a middle finger-shaped hook.

The Localis justas busy as I expected it to be, even taking into account it’s a Tuesday night. I push myself past a group of people crowding the front door and spot Jonas at the bar with a petite blonde—likely laying on a thick layer of his charm.

Her smile widens and I know she’s falling for his allure. I don’t blame her in the slightest though, it’s hard not to getsucked into his charm. If I was the relationship type or someone who wanted something long-term, I could see myself going for Jonas. We have fun, get along well, and neither of us takes anything too seriously, but I rarely let anyone get within range to even be considered friends let alone close enough to want a romantic relationship. I had a therapist once—literally once because I never went back to her—allude to the fact that my lack of ability to let people in isn’t my greatest trait. She didn’t say it in those exact words, but it’s what I took from the conversation. However, jokes on her because that’s one trait I’m okay with. I live by the rule: if you don’t let anyone get too close to you, you can’t get hurt when they inevitably bail. And yes, I’m aware of how cynical that sounds, but it is true. Everyone will eventually leave at some point.

“There she is!” Jonas flashes all his teeth at me as he lifts an arm and pulls me into a hug.

“Still in your J. Crew, I see.” I lift the lapel of his suit, and he scoffs.

“Please, don’t offend me, Blondie. This is Tom Ford.” He runs one hand through his perfectly coiffed, dirty blond hair and the other down the front of his broad chest.

“Alright, James Bond.” I resist the urge to laugh. Instead, I make a big show of rolling my eyes.

“Anyway, Taylor, this is my new friend, Stephanie. Steph, can I call you Steph?” He looks over at her and she nods enthusiastically. “This is Taylor.”

I smile and wave. “Nice to meet you, Stephanie.”

“You, too.”

Jonas looks at me to his left, then back to Stephanie on his right, then back to me again. “Shots?”

Roughly four tequilashots and three ranch waters later, my hair is stuck to my face and my sweat-soaked back, and I’m not sure but it looks like Jonas’s tie is missing. At some point during the night, we took over the dance floor and the DJ blessed us with dive bar anthems one after another. I thank him by blowing a few air kisses in his direction every few songs.

“Wait. Where’s Natalie?”

“Who?”

“Natalie. The little blonde.” I hold my hand up to my shoulder, and his eyes squint like he’s trying to make sense of what I’m saying. “No. Melanie?”

“Ssstephanie,” he says, swaying forward.

“Stephanie, yes! Where’d she go?” I spin around, looking behind me and immediately hate myself for it. The liquid sloshing around my stomach threatens to creep up and I turn back to rest my hands on Jonas’s Tom Ford-covered shoulders. “Bad idea. Spinning.”

“The time has come, Blondie.”

The moment we step outsideThe Local, I hungrily suck down the frigid night air. It’s likely a lot cooler than I believe it to be, but the inside of my body is cooking right now.

“Here,” I say, handing Jonas my key ring.

“Which one is it?” He holds it up, and I look at it. The cowboy boot and bead bracelet keychain Camila gave me jingles against the single key on the loop.

“Use your big lawyer brain. I bet you can figure it out.” I laugh while opening the building door, and like two drunk turtles, we climb the seven flights of stairs.

By the time we make it to my floor, I’m convinced it’s morning. “Home sweet home,” Jonas says, fitting the key into the lock before throwing his shoulder into my door. “For another few hours, at least.” His voice trails off and his eyesfind mine. His normally happy, gleaming baby blues are downturned and red.

“Thank you, Jonas,” I whisper, and the alcohol is starting to feel like weighted bricks in my stomach.