Oh god. Forward again. But instead of it scaring me, I embrace it. I hold my ground. I refuse to feel awkward.
“Maybe,” I tell him, wishing I had the nerve to say more.
Something in his eyes change. They become more focused, but with fire. Like there’s some sort of tiger deep inside, starting to roar.
It scares me. It excites me.
And I’m still not moving.
“Did you want to get a cup of coffee?” he asks. “I know you just had one and might not want another…”
I can’t help but grin. He’s asking me out. Even if it’s just for coffee, that’s still something. “I drink decaf so it’s never a problem,” I admit.
“Unless you want a real drink?” he says, his eyes going to the bar across the street. “Are you twenty-one?”
“No, but my fake ID says I am.”
His mouth quirks up into a sly smile. He’s got beautiful lips. I wonder what he tastes like.
“I like you already,” he says.
A thrill shoots through me, hot and fast, and I try to keep my smile under control.
“Is that a good place?” he asks, gesturing to the bar. “I’m afraid I don’t know the city well yet.”
I wish I knew most of the bars downtown, but I tend to stick to my neighborhood. Still, I know this bar is pretty casual.
Considering it’s the afternoon, there’s a surprising amount of people inside, but then I realize it’s part of the hotel above it. I’m not a fan of crowds, but the noise level is pretty low and the music is mellow jazz. We manage to get two seats at the end of the bar, which is both distancing in the fact that you share your conversation with the bartender, plus it’s not as easy to look into each other’s eyes, and also intimate because you have to sit right beside the person.
I’m not sure what I like better, but Vicente’s fresh yet smoky scent is making the distance between us feel even closer. It doesn’t help that when I take my seat, my knee rubs against his.
“What will you have?” he asks. “Order one drink, order several. Get the most expensive thing you can think of. It’s on me.”
Hmmm. Maybe he wasn’t joking when he mentioned money to Anderson. I know my program isn’t cheap, I’m just really lucky my parents are able to pay for it.
“Are you sure?” I ask.
He nods. “What would you like?”
Well, considering it’s two in the afternoon… “A Bloody Mary.” I pause. “With Grey Goose.” I might be pressing my luck, but hey, he said he was buying. I usually have it with the cheapest vodka there is (Smirnoff, which I hate, but that’s student life).
“Do you like Grey Goose or are you just picking that because it’s expensive?” he asks thoughtfully. “No offense, of course. I just think there are better vodkas.”
Normally I can’t help but take offense, but I can tell he’s just being honest.
“You pick,” I tell him. “I trust you.”
He bites his lip at that, as if my trust was what he wanted all along. I don’t even know why I said that, it’s not like I know a thing about this guy. Other than his name and a yearning for photography, he’s a stranger.
Tiny warning bells go off in the back of my head, reminding me of exactly this. He’s a stranger. Just because he’s got a pretty face and his forearms are laced with muscle doesn’t mean I should let my guard down. I mean, the fact that I’m here at a bar with him is already pretty fucked up in the world of Violet McQueen, who never lets her guard down with anyone.
So while Vicente orders us two Bloody Marys with some foreign sounding vodka I’ve never heard of, I watch the process closely to make sure that the bartender doesn’t slip anything in there (I’m not sure how or why, unless this was all carefully orchestrated, but of course that’s my paranoia talking) and then keep my drink to myself the moment the bartender slides it into my hand.
“Here’s to…” Vicente says, lifting his drink to mine. “The kindness of strangers.”
We clink glasses and I take a sip, his amber eyes never leaving mine, seeming to drink me in. He reaches into my very core, colder and stronger than any spirit.
Speaking of which, the drink is hella good.
“You like it,” he says.
I nod. “I never thought I’d be able to tell the difference between vodkas.”
“Believe me, there’s a difference,” he says, taking a sip. His tongue gently licks the salted edge of his glass, the sight causing heat to build between my legs. Jesus, either this drink is going to my head right away or I’m in trouble. “Though price doesn’t always mean quality. Grey Goose is fine and all, but the one we’re having is five dollars a bottle cheaper.”
With his rich tones and that light hint of an accent, I could listen to him talk about alcohol all day. I could also watch that tongue of his all day too.
He seems to smirk a little, as if noticing my attention, and leans back. “A fascinating conversation or what?”
“No,” I say quickly, even though he doesn’t look all too bothered. “It is interesting. I’m lame, I don’t really know much about it.”
“My father taught me all of that,” he tells me. “He’s a big fan of sipping tequila. There’s sipping vodka too, you know. I’ve had this straight over ice before.”
I wrinkle my nose. “No, thank you. That would be way too intense.”