His mouth snapped shut and he nodded, but beneath the table I saw his leg bouncing up and down.
“Can I get you something?” one of the waitresses making her rounds asked.
“Sure, I’ll have”—his eyes flicked to my glass—“whatever he’s having.”
“Whiskey,” I said.
“Whiskey, then,” he repeated, giving the woman a quick smile. “And maybe another for him.”
I arched a brow but didn’t correct him. I hadn’t been planning to stay much longer, but now I was intrigued.
As the waitress walked off with our orders, he shrugged. “I figure you might need some more alcohol for this.”
“Will I?”
“Definitely.” He looked like he wanted to say more but settled for folding his hands on the table, his thumb tapping the other. “Although I guess alcohol is the whole reason for this”—he motioned between us—“because I never, never do things like this. Well, not sober, anyway, and God, I was really drunk when I—” He stopped himself, shaking his head, and took a deep breath before focusing on me. “Sorry, is this supposed to be more formal, or…?”
I sipped my drink and wondered where this was going. Obviously he’d mistaken me for someone else, and if I burst his bubble too quickly, he’d leave, embarrassed. That would be a shame, considering he was more than easy on the eyes, and the nervous energy rolling off him was kind of endearing.
So for now, I was content to let him fill in the blanks on who he thought I was and see where it went.
Setting my empty glass on the table, I said, “This is whatever you want it to be.”
There. That was vague enough, and it seemed to be the right answer, because another wave of relief crossed his handsome face.
The waitress returned with our drinks, and he didn’t waste time swallowing down a bit of liquid courage.
“Nervous?” I asked.
“Is it that obvious?”
I winked at him, thinking that would help set him at ease, but he swallowed hard, and that was when I had my first win.
He was attracted to me. I could work with that.
“Tell me why,” I said, sliding my new drink in front of me.
He needed another long sip before answering. “Because this is a terrible idea. I mean, I don’t even know you, and I’m sitting here asking you to—” He shook his head, running his hand through his hair again. “See, this is why I shouldn’t be allowedto make decisions when I’m stressed. Or drunk. Drunk and stressed.”
When he dropped his hand back on the table, I instinctively touched his wrist, wanting to help ground him so he could get out whatever it was he was struggling to say.
His eyes shot up to mine, flaring with heat.
“Tell me,” I said, my fingers still firm on his skin.
It seemed to be working, because he let out a long exhale, his shoulders visibly dropping, and nodded.
“My ex,” he said. “Seven weeks. That’s how long it took him. Well, seven weeks, six days, and”—he checked his watch—“fourteen hours. That’s how long it took him to go from ‘I love you’ to being with someone else. Um. Not that I’m counting or anything.”
Ah, there it was. Heartbreak was a cruel beast. And because I could sense there was more coming, I said nothing, just sat back, steepled my fingers, and let him talk instead of interrupting.
“And I know how that sounds, like, get over it already, people move on, life goes on. But I’m the idiot who actually thought—” He sucked in a deep breath, cutting himself off before finishing the thought. “Anyway. So that’s why I’m here. Sorry. I know it’s a lot.”
“No,” I said. “It was honest.”
He looked up shyly, giving me an almost embarrassed smile. “Yeah, apparently that’s my thing now. Hasn’t been too popular.”
Like he needed more liquid courage, he took another long drink, and I let my gaze rove over him again.