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“Carry on,” I tell him with a dismissive wave.
The bartender carefully removes the cork with a practiced flick of the wrist and pours the dark liquid into three glasses.
The rich, velvety scent of the wine fills the air, making my mouth water. Trever glares at the two-thousand-dollar glass of merlot as if it personally insulted him.
“This is bullshit. When will I see you again?” His words drip with rudeness as he disregards Carlee’s demeanor. It’s obvious she’s growing uncomfortable by his tone.
“Watch your fucking tone when speaking to her,” I finally say, my voice straining.
Carlee sits straighter. “I’m sorry, Trever. This isn’t going to work out between us.” Her Southern accent sayshello, a melodic reminder of the roots she tries to bury.
“You’re breaking up with me?” Trever snaps back, his voice crackling with disbelief.
His reaction catches her off guard.
“Trever,” she says sharply as the nice version of her vanishes, replaced by a fierce resolve, “be realistic. We’re on our third date. You ditched me after thirty minutes the last time we were together.” Her tone is unwavering. “We arenotdating. Look at howyou’ve treated me tonight. You’re self-centered and married to your job.”
Ruthless.I’ve never personally witnessed this side of her before, and it simultaneously captivates and terrifies me.
“You’re a bitch,” he retorts, pulling a hundred-dollar bill out of his wallet with exaggerated disdain. “I’m not paying for your drinks.”
“I’ve got it,” I say, glaring at him, my hand instinctively returning to the back of Carlee’s stool. “Goodbye, Trever.”
“Fuck you. She won’t suck your dick either,” he hisses as he storms away.
As he retreats, Carlee picks up her wineglass, taking three large gulps as if seeking solace.
Neither of us speaks for five minutes, but our bodies are as close as they can be without sharing a chair.
“I’m—”
“I’m—”
We stumble over each other in synchronicity.
“Go ahead,” I offer, hoping she isn’t upset. “You first.”
“I’m happy to see you,” she admits. “Your turn.”
I open my mouth, then close it again because that’s not the response I expected. “I was going to offer an apology.”
“Save it for when it’s needed. It’s not in this instance.” Her brows rise, and she glances around, a smile breaking across her face as her gaze dances over the candles flickering on the bar top.
A second later, she shifts her barstool, creating space between us. It’s a deliberate move, a precaution, in case anyone is watching our casual exchange too closely.
“What’s on your mind?” I ask.
“When I arrived, I imagined how nice this would be with the right company. And thenyouappeared.” She tilts her head, eyes sparkling.
“Were you thinking about me?” I ask. The weight of the moment shimmers with unspoken chemistry.
“Maybe.” She takes another sip of wine, the liquid gliding down her throat, and I can’t help but admire the way her lips wrap around the glass’s edge.
“Don’t make me blush,” I tease, trying to keep the mood light.
She chuckles. “Is a Calloway even capable?”
“Hmm,” I muse, realizing she has no idea how breathtakingly gorgeous she is under these lights.