Page 91 of Seven Summers Ago
“There’s no way I’m going to a bar dressed in your dad’s underwear and an old Wranglers T-shirt.”
He breathes out a light laugh. “They should be closed by now. There’s a noise restriction law on the island. All bars have to shut by one a.m.”
“I remember that.”
There’s rustling across the room, and I turn to glance his way. He’s already sitting up with his feet on the floor. “C’mon, let’s go get that drink.” He stands and gestures with his chin for me to follow.
I hop up and pad after him, trying to be light on my feet so as not to wake Mr. Stone. Though I’d be surprised if our arguing hasn’t already woken him up.
“This doesn’t mean things between us are good,” I warn.
“Yeah, yeah. I guess we can call a truce while we get that drink. Deal?” he says over his shoulder, a fiery look in his eyes and a mischievous grin on his lips as he leads the way down the stairs.
“Fine. Deal.” But deep down, I know this is a very bad idea.
Beck closes the door at the bottom of the stairs behind us, and I follow him down a hall. There’s restrooms and a storage room off the hallway before opening into the restaurant. Beck flips on a few lights.
The bar is much as you’d expect it to be in a small island town in California. Wood-paneled walls with posters and a neon sign. Pool tables, dart boards, and tables pushed to one side with chairs flipped upside down and resting on them. An L-shaped bar fills an entire corner and practically one side of the restaurant.
Behind it, a variety of alcohol bottles line the shelves. Beck rounds the bar and reaches for two glasses, setting them on the countertop. He takes a few ice cubes from the machine and drops them into the glasses with a clink.
I prop my elbows on the countertop, watching him with interest. As he turns around to peruse the bottles, my gaze betrays me as it glides across his wide back and down to his backside in the grey sweats.
He spins around and I’m too slow to tear my eyes away from the view of the peak in the crotch of his sweats. Caught again. Damn. He snorts a laugh, but I don’t let him get the upper hand. I can’t.
“Were you gonna ask me what I wanted to drink or is this another thing you just assume about me?”
“Whiskey,” he says as he holds up a bottle.
He might’ve known me at one point. But he doesn’t now
I hold my chin up higher. “I don’t drink whiskey. Not anymore.”
“Oh, c’mon, you’re kidding.”
“Nope. I don’t drink much at all.”
“Not even whiskey? You used to love it. Especially Jack.” He twists the bottle open with a little quirk in one brow.
“Yeah, well, I have a kid to take care of. Clients. A fiancé.”
“Besides the kid, I don’t see how the other things are relevant.”
“I don’t expect you to understand,” I mutter.
Groaning, he gives me a glass. “Don’t start talking to me about responsibilities again. Because I’ll call bullshit. Here.”
I roll my eyes but take the drink. Anything to shut him up. I bring it up to my lips and he does the same. We don’t take our eyes off each other, and the burn is fierce and searing as the once familiar liquid runs down my throat. The warmth and sweetness on my tongue evokes images of my youth. Beck and me. It was always Beck and me.
He could’ve chosen any other kind of alcohol from those shelves, but he chose the one that used to be my favorite. The go-to liquor we’d sneak from his dad’s stash and drink on the beach while we watched the sun sink into the ocean.
Well played, Beck.
“So what’s the deal, your rich boyfriend doesn’t let you drink anymore?”
“Fiancé,” I correct for about the thousandth time. But it’s more of a reflex because I guess West isn’t my fiancé. Not anymore. “It’s not aboutlettingme. I drink wine sometimes.”
He lowers his head to catch my attention. “Again, he can’t be your fiancé when you’re still married to me,” he growls.
