Page 7 of Notes About Vodka (Happily Ever After Hangover #1)

Over the next few weeks, these napkin notes become our thing.

The bar is always too loud, too busy for real conversations, but this?

This is perfect. It’s like having a secret in plain sight.

The more we exchange, the more I get to know her beyond the quick glances and stolen moments during shifts. And damn, I’m intrigued.

She tells me about her small town, Hurtsboro, which I’ve never heard of, so I ask her why she left. Her response?

“Because it Hurts-a-boro to leave there.”

I don’t get the joke at first, but when I do, I laugh so hard I spill a glass of water.

In return, I tell her about Sochi—how I had a condo in the city and a dacha in the mountains of Lazarevskiya with my parents. I even explain that Russia has States, or Oblasts, which surprises her. I can almost imagine the way she’d tilt her head, curious, trying to picture what that means.

The conversations keep coming, in bits and pieces, scattered over napkins, receipts, whatever we can find. One night, I write her a note about wine, telling her I prefer red over white, asking what she thinks. The next shift, her reply’s scribbled on the back of a receipt:

“Life’s too short to drink bad wine. And if a glass makes you feel good, imagine what a whole bottle will do.”

Her humor’s sharp, and it always gets me. But beyond the jokes, there’s something else—something deeper. These notes have gone from small talk to real conversations about everything: food, movies, books. I can feel us opening up in this weird, roundabout way.

I wonder if she realizes I’m catching feelings. Because every new note I get, every little piece of her personality I uncover, pulls me in further.

We don’t just talk about everyday things anymore; it’s turned into something more.

Each napkin, each note, becomes this little treasure that tells me something new about Laura, something that keeps me hooked.

We share our favorite restaurants, hidden spots around the city, places we both love.

It’s like exploring each other’s worlds, piece by piece, through scribbled words on scraps of paper.

There’s something so personal about it, like these notes are a window into who she really is, beneath all the hustle and noise of the bar.

And it’s not just about swapping lists of favorite movies or the best places to grab a drink.

It’s become this ongoing, playful thing—like we’re in our own private game that no one else at the bar even knows about.

Hidden in plain sight, surrounded by customers and coworkers, but it’s just me and Laura passing notes like high school kids with a secret.

The notes get flirty, too. One day she wrote,

“Champagne is for celebrations, but I think you might be worth a toast!”

and that line lingers with me long after the bar closes.

I find myself thinking about what she’ll write next, how she’ll twist her words into something that’ll make me laugh or leave me wondering.

Her wit is sharp, but there’s always a warmth to it, like she knows just how to tease without going too far.

The banter? It’s addictive. I start looking forward to her notes more than anything else at work.

It’s a slow burn, this connection. Every time we pass a napkin, it feels like we’re inching closer to something unspoken, something real—a true bond, maybe even love, that goes beyond the casual flirtation.

I imagine us sharing more than just notes, but real moments together, building a life that starts with these small, meaningful exchanges. I’ve never felt this kind of pull before, not just with her looks or the way she carries herself, but with the words she leaves behind.

I know we’re building something, one napkin at a time.

Then one night, when the bar’s packed and we barely have time to exchange a glance, I decide to take a risk.

The place is buzzing, but I slip her a note as she walks by, my fingers grazing the pocket of her apron.

She’s on her way to the stage to drop off drinks near the piano, and I don’t even wait to see her reaction. I just write,

“Let’s build something together. Go out with me.”

As she sits on the piano bench, I watch her carefully unfold the napkin, the soft lighting catching the red in her curls as she reads it.

For a second, I’m frozen, waiting for her response.

Then, she looks my way, shaking her head, but she’s smiling.

That smile. It’s playful, almost challenging, like she knows exactly what she’s doing to me.

I can feel my heart racing just watching her.

I don’t get her reply until later, after the bar has emptied out and I’m closing up. I find her note tucked beneath the cash register ,

“Let’s just build a friendship first.”

I stare at the words, a mix of relief and disappointment washing over me. She didn’t say no, not entirely. And that’s something. I realize she’s offering me something better, something that could last longer than a fling or some rushed romance. She’s telling me we need time, and I respect that.

So, that’s what we do. We build a friendship.

We keep the notes coming, keep teasing, keep learning more about each other.

And honestly? It feels right. Every time I get another one of her napkins, I know we’re laying down the foundation for something solid, something real.

I know I could just get her cell number, but this feels special, something that is just ours.

One afternoon, after enjoying a beautiful day off, I drive around New York City in my MazdaSpeed6.

The roar of the engine echoes through the narrow streets, and the breeze rushes through the open window.

I take in the towering skyscrapers, the glint of the sun on the East River as I cross the bridge, and the distant hum of the city’s endless energy.

The scent of hot asphalt and food carts fills the air as I wind through the vibrant neighborhoods, making each turn feel like an adventure.

I love winding around town, taking the bridge over to Brooklyn or Staten Island.

Stopping by Pianissimo that evening, I do some paperwork, order supplies, and help Mads with inventory.

As I tally up the bar’s earnings at the end of the night, I find another note from Laura .

"Nice whip."

I didn’t realize she was working tonight.

As I fold up the note and place it in my pocket, I can’t help but feel a bit confused.

Nice whip? What does that even mean?

I turn to Mads, who is busy corking wine bottles and counting the liquor, and ask him about the note. He looks up at me with a smirk on his face and says, “Val, dude, she’s complimenting your car.”

“My car?” I respond, puzzled.

“Yeah, man, whip means car. And nice means… well, nice,” he explains with a chuckle.

I feel my cheeks heat up as I realize that Laura has been paying attention not only to my words but also to the things around me.

She noticed my beloved Zoomie—a detail that shows she cares enough to notice what matters to me.

It's rare for someone to appreciate the things I’m proud of, and it makes me feel seen in a way I haven't felt in a long time.

I can't help but grin as I write back and leave the note where she will find it later.

"You know cars?"

The following day, I eagerly get to work to find her napkin response waiting for me, sticking out of the cash register.

"I grew up in a garage, surrounded by the smell of motor oil and the clanging of tools. My dad is a skilled mechanic back home. He taught me everything there is to know about cars. I guess you could say it's in my blood."

The image of a young girl with her red hair covered in grease and grime, intently watching her father work on engines, flashes through my mind.

I chuckle at her down-to-earth reply as I quickly scrawl my response on another napkin.

“That’s awesome! Sounds like you have some serious skills. What’s your favorite car to work on?”

Her response comes later that night, written with a bit of a mischievous flair.

“Honestly? I love working on old classics. There’s something special about bringing a vintage car back to life, but the Pontiac Firebird is my favorite.”

Feeling emboldened by this small gesture of interest from her, I decide to take a chance and invite her for a ride on my next note.

“Thanks for noticing my Speed6. Want to go for a ride sometime?”

I fold up the note quickly before any doubts can creep in and hand it to Laura as she passes by me behind the bar. She takes it with a smile and nods her head in response as she walks away, reading my question.

The rest of our shift goes by in a blur as I wait anxiously for her reply.

I can’t help but feel my nerves on edge, wondering if I had been too forward or if she might turn me down.

The uncertainty gnaws at me, and I find myself glancing her way more often than I should.

When I finally find the note she left for me near the drink pick-up station, my heart stutters as I read,

“I’d love that. But maybe another time…”

After a few days of anticipation, I finally receive her next note, waiting for me on the back of a piece of sheet music. It surprises me with its detailed description of my car.

The note reads:

“I have to say, I’m impressed. I don’t know how you can afford it, but I love your car.

Your MazdaSpeed6 is so unique! With its turbocharged inline-six engine, it’s got that perfect blend of power and refinement.

I read in Car and Driver that the all-wheel drive really adds to the driving experience, making it feel like it’s glued to the road.

Plus, I really like how you lowered in a little and then blacked out all the windows. ”

Reading her note, I’m touched by her extensive knowledge and the effort she put into describing my car. I’m grinning from ear to ear as I think about how much Laura knows and appreciates the machine that I cherish.

Intrigued by her knowledge of cars, I respond with a question of my own,

"Do you have a 'whip'?"

Her next note comes swiftly, and it’s full of playful boasting. She writes,

“Oh, absolutely, without a doubt! My ride is way cooler than your Speed6. It's sporty, streamlined, and turns heads wherever I go."

My response is simple,

“And this ride is a ______?”

Laura’s note:

Her message leaves me both amused and curious. The way she described her car with such dramatic flair made me laugh.

“You won’t believe the kind of beast I drive!”

She wrote, adding just enough mystery to make me picture all sorts of possibilities.

I can't help but wonder what kind of car she's talking about, especially with the way her voice practically bubbled over with excitement—like she could barely keep the secret to herself, her words tumbling out faster than usual.

The way she's teasing me—dropping hints like 'it’s not what you’d expect' or 'it has a personality all its own,' without giving too much away—makes it even more intriguing.

I really want to know what she's driving in this city.

Maybe something flashy, like a sports car, or maybe a quirky vintage ride—something that matches her vibe. I mean, if she knows this much about my car, what could hers be? I bet she drives a Mini Cooper—it just seems to fit her style, compact but full of personality, just like her.