‘Sorry – that was a little judgey. But most people either end up getting married within a couple of years or?—’
He winces – man, I amtotallyscrewing this up.
‘Hey, look at Goldie Hawn and Kurt Russell,’ I continue. ‘They’ve been together forever and they’re not married. Just because you’re not married doesn’t mean you’re not, like…committed. I mean?—’
‘Shall I stop you before you dig yourself into a deeper hole?’
‘Please.’
‘Pip and I are engaged, actually.’
‘Oh, cool. Congratulations. When’s the big day?’
He sucks in loudly through his teeth, then his lips disappear altogether.
‘Seriously?’ I ask, half afraid of the answer.
He nods sharply and downs the rest of his drink in one go, grimacing and clearing his throat.
‘That was from the drink, right?’ I ask, giving him an out.
‘Not even close,’ he replies with a frown.
Okay – so, wearegoing there.
‘A long engagement, I take it?’
He draws in a deep breath but instead of answering, he unfurls from the sofa and crosses to the bar cart. ‘How do you make one of these again?’ he tosses over his shoulder.
‘Here, let me.’ I go over, but he’s in the way. ‘Okay, dude, step aside.’
‘Dude?’ he asks with a smirk, looking right at me.
It’s the closest we’ve been since the ferry incident, and I need to crane my neck to meet his eye.
‘How tall are you?’ I ask.
‘Six-foot-five. Why?’
‘No reason.’
I bump him out of the way with my hip, ignoring the voice in the back of my head. I’ve always liked tall guys – until Nicholas, every guy I’ve dated was six-two or taller. Don’t get me wrong, Nicholas is handsome –very– but he’s only five-eight.
Nick lingers nearby, his presence distracting me in ways it shouldn’t.
‘Go sit,’ I tell him, pointing at the sofa. He slinks over, falling onto it like a sack of potatoes, and I reach for the gin. ‘I’m guessing you want the same?’
‘Sure.’
I add ice to the glass, then pour in the gin, Campari, and sweet vermouth. I stir carefully so the drink doesn’t get cloudy.
‘Where did you learn how to do that? You look like a professional,’ he says.
‘Well, Iwantedto go pro, but I did my rotator cuff playing pickle ball, so…’ I shrug.
‘Ah,’ he says a beat later, ‘you’re joking.’
‘Little bit,’ I say. I glance over and we share a smile. ‘I was a bartender my final year of college,’ I explain, returning to the cocktail. ‘DTLA, rooftop bar, big corporate crowd – mostly assholes, but great tips. Oh, DTLA is?—’