Page 9 of Thirst For Me
Adorable.
“Well, I’ve been told I’m polyjamorous,” I tell her. “I seriously enjoy almost every genre.”
She raises an eyebrow. “I’m calling bullshit. You’re gonna tell me anything goes? Deathcore? Happy hardcore? Mumble rap? You’ve got the windows down and a jaunty polka cranked as you drive down the highway?”
I chuckle. “I saidalmostevery genre.”
She smiles.
Forget butterflies. It feels like an entire flock of doves just lifted off from my ribcage because I made her smile.
She slides the shot glass toward me again. “Third one’s a charm?” Her eyes twinkle at me, and everything around her seems to blur out. There’s nothing but her, me, and some vague sense of an annoying world somewhere beyond.
I have to force myself to look away.
It would probably be best to slow her down, so I open a cold bottle of award-winning Sea Salt cider, romanticizing it for her as I pour her a glass. “How about a crisp apple cider, with fresh lime and a hint of sea salt? Like a margarita, but better. You’ll want to savor it. Maybe with some guacamole and flatbread. I’ll put an order into the kitchen for you.”
“Ah. He’s tryingnotto get me drunk. How gallant.” She closes one eye and tilts her head like she’s trying to make sense of me. “Or, he’s just trying to drive up my tab ...?”
“It’s on the house.”
“Pity food? No thank you!” She digs in her pink bag and extracts a credit card.
“Nope. Your money’s no good on this.”
“Why?” She glances around like there must be some hidden camera and she’s getting punked.
“What, you don’t have gentlemen in Vancouver?”
Her chin lifts. “And how do you know I’m from Vancouver?”
“It’s obvious.”
She frowns.
“Not in a bad way,” I amend.
“I’ll pretend to believe that.”
“I like your coffee mug,” I say, as seriously as I can.
It’s sitting on the bar between us, and there’s a big, sparkly sticker on the side facing me. It’s a heart with an arrow through it, and one word on it:Boys.
“Don’t expect to get it refilled for a few miles, though,” I tell her. “The nearest place to get a latte is like twenty minutes away, in Duncan, though that probably doesn’t seem far to a city person.”
“I’ll try to survive,” she says.
I move to the computer and start putting in her food order, asking casually, “Have you checked out any of the sights yet?”
“No. I just followed GPS straight to the town center—what there is of it.”
“It’s not Vancouver, I’ll give you that. But don’t go thinking there’s nothing to see out here.”
“Heavens, no.”
“You should have a local show you around.” Our eyes meet briefly, and there’s that spark, low in my gut.
“Maybe June Spencer will,” she says lightly.
