Page 5

SWEET WITH A KICK

LUKE

“Gotta love it—fate and meatballs.”

If I weren’t trying to impress the woman next to me, I would’ve reached out and smacked Alex on the back of the head.

If he hadn’t just been waxing poetic about how I need to find “Mrs. Right Now” and have some fun between the sheets, maybe I wouldn’t be so annoyed with him right now. His fucking smirk grates on my nerves as he helps patrons who belly up to the bar. His wink when I make eye contact with him.

My best friend is going to heckle me about this for at least the next month.

I’ve been so focused on running my rock climbing business over the past year that I haven’t enjoyed a night out in a while.

While I’ve been living in Indy for a year now, Squeaky Bum Climb has only been open for about six months.

It’s a lot of work to open up a family business franchise, and I’ve got a lot riding on this location being a success.

If anyone understands the stress and weight of running and proving yourself worthy of taking over the family business, it’s Alex Green.

But unlike myself, Alex doesn’t have a problem with his work-life balance, is enjoying nights out, and meets women everywhere he meets.

I’d love to meet someone, but right now, I’m laser-focused on Squeaky Bum.

When Alex texted me earlier today and told me about the fun special he had running tonight, he demanded that I stop by. When I realized I actuallt had the evening free and didn’t really need to stick around my office until ten like I normally do, I decided beer and meatballs sounded pretty fire.

“So, I’m not going to lie, I was wondering what Meatball Thursday was all about,” Stella says, reading over the small menu Alex dropped in front of us. Glancing down at it myself, I realize he once again went all out for specialty food night.

“Yeah, I’ll give it to Alex. He knows how to pair beer and food.” I chuckle when is see he has seven different pairings.

“I never really think much of meatballs, but I’m strangely excited about this.”

“Do you think meatballs live rent-free in most people’s minds?” I ask her, and while she doesn’t look at me, I see her smile and know I'm on the right track with her.

I really didn’t plan on hooking up tonight, but this woman is intriguing as hell. There is something about her that screams, You want to get to know me, but I won’t make it easy. I’ve always found that hard work pays off.

“So, you own a rock climbing gym?” she asks as she looks around the crowded bar. I guess I still haven’t earned her full attention.

“I run it. I don’t own it yet. Family business. I’ve been given some freedom to prove myself,” I tell her honestly.

“Ah. That sounds both invigorating and stressful.” She glances at me. The Trading Post isn’t a dark and dreary place, so there’s plenty of light for me to see the look she gives me. She must know a thing or two about having to prove herself.

“It is. What about you?” I ask her, picking up my glass and taking a sip.

She finally gives me her attention, and her face lights up as she starts to share. “I’m a photojournalist.”

Impressed, I lean back and whistle. “Look at you. That’s an impressive career.” She smiles and shrugs, trying to play it cool. “So, what kind of things do you photo journal about?”

She lifts her chin. “Sports, cultural events, and human-interest stories across the US.”

“Like…” I just want her to keep talking; she’s clearly passionate about her career.

“I’ve covered Mardi Gras, several major music festivals, people with interesting jobs—like storm chasers—and most recently, last year’s X Games in Aspen.”

“Wow. So I bet you’ve seen a lot of interesting stuff.”

“You could say that. But I’ve never need a meatball served seven ways with beer.” She laughs, grinning wide, and I can’t help it—I’m locked in. She’s fucking gorgeous when she isn’t pretending she isn’t invested in our conversation.

Determined, I clear my throat. “Alright, first test. What kind of meatballs are you getting?” I ask her.

“What do you mean first test ? What happens if I fail?” She finally looks away from the menu and levels me with a challenging look.

“I get up and leave. That’s it. That’s the deal breaker.” I know I’m taking a risk by saying this, but I’m nothing if not a risk taker.

She ponders this for a moment, her bottom lip pulled between her teeth. “That’s dramatic. You own a climbing gym, not a Michelin-star restaurant.”

“Hey, you learn a lot about a person from their food choices. You get Swedish meatballs, you’re a comfort creature. You pick buffalo, you live for chaos.”

“And what about bourbon barbecue?” she asks, eyeing the menu again.

“You like things sweet with a little kick. You act tough but secretly love cozy things, like flannel and autumn and sad acoustic music.” I don’t tell her that perfectly describes me.

“That’s disturbingly specific. Do you also moonlight as a psychic?” she challenges.

“Nah, I just observe things.” I grin at her and tap my glass. We’ll need to get some food in front of us before we get another drink if we plan on keeping up this flirting tonight.

“Alright, Professor Meatball, what are you getting?” she asks as she turns toward me, crossing one leg over the other, her Converse-covered foot dangling dangerously close.

“I’m feeling the Korean Gochujang. Spicy, unexpected, and a little bit of an adventure,” I tell her with a slow, knowing smirk. Let her read into that.

Her mouth twitches with a ghost of a smile. “That tracks. I was gonna say it sounds reckless, but you probably climb rocks for fun.”

“And you photograph people doing reckless things for fun. Not so different.”

“Hmm. Maybe.” She studies me, and the attention is addicting.

“So, what’s it gonna be? Are we food soulmates or is this doomed before it starts?”

Stella taps her finger over her lips as she pretends to think hard. Laughter twinkles in her eyes as she watches me. “Bourbon barbecue. Guess I’m leaning into the ‘sweet with a kick’ label.”

I pump my fist in the air. “Knew it.”

She laughs. I don’t want to say it’s a giggle; she doesn’t strike me as a giggler, but her laugh sounds like pure joy. “Okay, but if this is my first test, what’s next?”

And we are on—like Donkey Kong. This night is bound to be an ace. “You’ll find out.” I wink at her.

My phone buzzes in my back pocket, but I want to ignore it.

“Should we order? I’m going to need sustenance soon,” she says, looking down the bar. I follow her eyes and find Alex standing in the corner near the soda machine with his phone in his hands, smirking while texting. My phone buzzes again as he slides his phone back into his pocket.

I hold in a groan, knowing damn well he’s texting me. Then there’s a final buzz, and he’s heading our way. I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of checking my phone. To his credit, Alex doesn't say anything, just smirks as he takes our order.

Within several minutes, we’ve got a flight of IPA to match the tray of meatballs. Each is labeled so we pair them together correctly.

The conversation is easy, and chemistry is flowing between us. By the time we’re done, we’ve each ordered our favorite IPA in a full glass. We sit together, our backs against the bar as we watch the various traditional bar games.

I watch her as she leans against the bar.

Her posture is finally loosening, and the sharpness in her expression has softened just enough.

There’s still that guarded edge, like she’s ready to disappear before anyone gets too close.

I can tell she isn’t thinking about that right now, though. Right now, she’s just here.

Her lips curve, just slightly, as she watches some poor guy botch a dart throw so badly that even his own friends wince. Her fingers drum lazily against the side of her glass that she rests on her jean covered knee, like she’s absorbing the energy of the place without realizing it.

There’s something about watching someone who doesn’t let their guard down easily start to enjoy themselves. Like catching the first flicker of a sunrise before it fully breaks over the horizon.

I take another sip of my own beer, eyes still on her, and smirk. "So… did The Trading Post pass your test, or am I gonna have to find a new Thursday night spot?"

She nods. “The food is solid. The beer’s good. The company’s”—she pretends to contemplate her answer—“decent.”

The way she’s looking at me, all sexy and sassy like, I want to steal that mouth and kiss her stupid. “Decent? That’s it?” I ask, appalled.

Her grin is challenging. “I’m still deciding.” Her shoulder lifts in a shrug.

Leaning in closer, I ask, “ And what exactly would push me from ‘decent’ to whatever category earns me another drink with you?”

Tilting her head, she says, “That depends.” She doesn’t lean away from me.

“On?”

Her eyes dart down to my mouth, and it takes everything in me to stay focused. “How persuasive you are.”

Grinning, I know I’ve won this little game.

If I want to take her home, she’s cleared a path for me.

While I didn’t plan on this tonight, I could use a night to blow off some steam.

I’ve had my share of one-night stands. They have a time and place, and if one night is all I can get with this challenging and intriguing woman, I’ll take it.

“I could try to persuade you over another drink.” I pause and that and let that sit for a moment. “Or we could skip the pretense.”

Her lips part slightly. She’s not surprised by my brazen suggestion. She also doesn’t seem to be hesitating, just waiting for me to decide.

I close the gap between us, my lips grazing her ear. “Come home with me Stella.”

Leaning back, I see that she’s pulled that lip between her teeth again. She holds my gaze, stunning me, stretching out this moment of truth. I can tell the minute she decides when she breaks our eye contact, grabs her small purse, and stands.

I watch her as I wait. I refuse to think I misjudged her earlier flirting.