Page 7 of Threads That Bind Us
Letting Ben touch me.
Being like Isabelle.
There’s a lot more. I keep jotting them down until I’ve filled the cons half of the page with reasons that would keep me from saying yes to this under any other circumstance. There’s only one other thing I can add to the pros.
This is temporary.
I stare at the page, anger building up in me again, but this time it’s aimed at myself, for not saying yes immediately and needing time to process. I reach for my drink again, hoping forthe comfort only your favorite cocktail can provide, only to remember it’s empty.
“God, are you gonna get me another drink or not?” I demand, not at all slurring and definitely not yelling.
Tears sting the corners of my eyes, and I need another French 75 to fix that, damn it. When I yank my gaze from the scrawled notes in the back of my book, I’m looking not at Sammy, with his cat-got-the-canary smile, but at something else entirely.
His hair is tousled and messy. His eyes are dark and pretty and almost familiar. He’s got a little more than a five o’clock shadow dusting his tanned skin, and the cut of his jaw makes me want to drool openly. And that’s all before you get to whatever’s happening from the neck down, which I physically cannot look at or I’ll evaporate on the spot.
He’s also looking at me with the kind of intensity that should feel scary. Like he’s seen a ghost, and he’s thrilled about it. Like he wants to consume me.
Oh my god,this is the hottest man I’ve ever seen.
“That’s a very kind compliment,” he says in a voice that might kill me. It’s quiet, low, and tilted with the slightest Mediterranean accent. Greek? Italian? Who cares? There’s a glimmer of something almost disbelieving in his eyes.
Also, he can read minds, which is crazy.
“You’re actually just saying all of that out loud,” he replies, and the little smile he’s sporting makes me break out in a cold sweat. Jesus Christ, when’s the last time I got laid?
“I’m not even sure how to apologize for that.”
Although I really do want another sparkly drink, I’m pretty sure assuming the hot bartender can read minds means I need to switch to water. Ana’s old enough that I rarely worry about having a drink or two while she’s out with friends, but I haven’t been this drunk in ages.
“Actually, a club soda and lime is probably a good idea,” I amend, sliding my empty champagne flute toward him. He glances over his shoulder at Sammy, who's busy chatting up three dudes in boat shoes and salmon-colored shorts, before shrugging, filling a glass with ice, and hunting for the soda nozzle.
When he finds it, he clicks a few of the buttons before filling my glass and setting it in front of me. I cock my head at him.
“Are you new here or something? Or new at bartending?” When he quirks an eyebrow, I take a sip of my drink and grimace. “You gave me Sprite. Is this your first time using a soda nozzle?”
He slides the glass from my hand, the back of his fingers grazing my palm in a way that feels intentional. I can see a hint of pink at the tip of his ears that makes me want to smile like an idiot.
“New bartender, yeah. Something like that.” He fills another glass, this time with the right setting, and places a little bowl with an entire lime’s worth of slices in front of me. His hands grip the bar, and I seal my tongue to the roof of my mouth so I don’t accidentally blabber about how fucking hot his hands are. What is it about hands? Clean nails, but calluses and scars. And tattoos. I can’t make out all the details in the low light, but there are delicate bird wings on his left, and a snake wrapped around some sort of staff on the right. I’m mesmerized by both the art and the canvas. Maybe it’s because I can imagine how they’d look against my body. Something I certainly shouldn’t be pondering about a stranger while he’s at his place of employment. I’m still examining his hands when he reaches across the bar and grabs my book before my brain can catch up.
“What’s this?” he asks, running his unfortunately sexyfingers over my writing. I try to grab my book back and nearly knock over my glass, which he catches before it can tip.
“I can’t be the drunk girl at the bar telling my sad life story to the hot bartender. It’s cliche, and despite being drunk off my ass, I’m still too sober for that.”
I clasp my hands together and shove them in my lap, hoping he gets bored quickly, or has more customers that he needs to talk to, or a meteor falls from the sky and kills us all. But instead of any of those things happening, he continues to study my little pro-con list.
“I can’t help but notice there are a lot of cons here,” he muses, leaning against the bar in a way that seems purposefully nonchalant. Do hot men practice that move? Do hot dads teach their hot sons how to lean against things? This should be a study in the American Journal of Medicine or something.
“It’s not the absolute number of pros and cons that matter,” I say, reaching toward the book. He holds it above his head, and I huff back into my seat. “Each item is weighted, and in this instance, the items in the pro category are weighted more heavily.”
He looks back and forth between the list and me, making some sort of calculation that my very sad, kind of drunk, and weirdly horny brain can’t deduce. Then he closes the book and slips it into his back pocket. Before I can protest, he turns around and grabs another champagne flute.
“We’ll come back to the book, but I think you deserve one more drink. What were you having?”
I should be annoyed that he’s stolen my list. Instead, the pleasant buzzing from the liquor has been intensified by bantering with a hot person, making me much more amenable to pushy tattooed bartenders sticking their nose in my business.
“If you insist, a French 75 please,” I say, letting myself flirtjust a little.
He stares for a second, smile still barely there on his lips, before his expression goes blank. He looks around for a minute, turns in place, moves towards Sammy, and then seems to give up.