Page 12 of Wish You Would

At that, I laughed. She smiled and went on. “She may not be interested. That’s always a risk you take.” Reaching across the counter, she covered my fidgeting hands with hers. “You can either shoot your shot or sit it out. But only one option could get you where you wanna be.”

I looked down, tracing my eyes over the way her inked fingers interlaced with my plain ones. Her nails were short and the color of midnight, mine were longer and baby pink. It was a study in contrast. A study of opposites. And I was fascinated. Pulling one hand from beneath hers, I traced a fingertip along the leafy vine that whirled around her wrist, leading to a bright red flower on the back of her hand.

“Oh, that,” she said, pulling away from my touch. I yanked my own hand back, as if I’d been doing something wrong. “Sixteen and rebellious,” she went on. “Had a friend with a tattoo gun and volunteered for practice.” She stashed her hand beneath the counter and huffed out a quiet laugh. “I’ve got much better tattoos than that one now.”

“I’d love to see them sometime.”

The words were out before I could think through the implications of them. Instantly, my cheeks fired up again. “I mean—”

“Why, Parker,” Gigi said before I could finish. She leaned an elbow on the bar, dark eyes dancing. “Was that a come on?”

“I—”

“If that’s what you’ve been holding back, you have nothing to worry about,” she continued. “You don’t need me, you’ve got this.”

“No.” Panic edged into my bloodstream. “I don’t have this! That was—it was an accident. I didn’t mean…I mean, I wasn’t implying that I…not that you’re not—I mean, you’re clearly very…I just…” I dropped my head on the bar and groaned.

Across from me, Gigi laughed. The sound was warm, free of cruelty, but still I wanted to curl up and die of embarrassment.

“Hey,” she said, reaching across to ruffle my hair. “It’s all right, I’m just fucking with you.”

I sat up and focused my eyes somewhere just over her head. I couldn’t look directly at her. Mostly because, what was fucking wrong with me? But also because now that my slip-up had pointed it out, all I’d see when I faced her again was how unbearably attractive she was.

Not that it was something that escaped my notice since the first time we’d met. Obviously, I knew Gigi was attractive—every WLW that walked into Heathcliff’s knew that Gigi was attractive. With her sparkling brown eyes and tattoos and curves for days. But if I thought too hard about it, I’d never have been able to look her in the eye, let alone have conversations with her.

In my effort to avoid her eye, something else caught my attention.

“Is that you?” I asked, pointing to a framed photograph hanging over Gigi’s head.

She looked up. “Ahh,” she said as she stood on tiptoe to take the picture down. “This is a historical artifact.” Setting it on the bar between us, she traced a finger over the glass. “Dad, Vaughn, and me.” In my periphery, I saw her smile. “I was probably around eight here?”

I leaned in, catching a whiff of something fresh and beachy emanating from her skin. The urge to inhale the scent was strong, but I resisted. I’d already accidentally hit on her. I didn’t need to sniff her, too.

“You were adorable.” I took in the cheesy grin of the little girl in the photograph, then looked at the woman before me.

“I know,” she said. “I haven’t changed at all.” Then, she stretched her face into the biggest grin she could. I laughed and she turned to hang the picture back up. “All right. Band’s gonna be here in about forty minutes. Drink up and practice your sultry hellos.”

Forty minutes passed a lot quicker than I’d have liked. The whiskey had barely warmed my veins when the members of Patti Mayonnaise filed into the bar. Panic raced up my throat when Halle stepped inside, cargo pants slung low on her slim hips, black tank top revealing slivers of smooth skin. My mouth dried up.

“Another drink,” I whispered to Gigi.

She chuckled and obliged. “Virgin this time,” she said. “Don’t need you sloppy drunk when you meet your dream girl.”

I growled my displeasure but took a long sip anyway. Ginger ale burned my throat and I coughed, tears springing into my eyes.

“Easy.” Gigi reached over and patted my back. “Dying does not make a good first impression.”

I glared. She grinned.

“Meet you over there,” she said before sailing from behind the counter. I watched as she crossed the bar and greeted the band with hugs and high fives, and I pondered whether I could reach over the counter for the whiskey bottle without Gigi noticing.

Opting against petty theft, I dragged a long, deep breath into my lungs. I could do this, I told myself as I released it. I could walk across the bar without tripping over my own feet. I could say hello and introduce myself without projectile vomiting all over her shoes. I—

Oh, god. What if I projectile vomited all over her shoes?

“Crap,” I whispered, gripping my ginger ale so tight I worried the glass would shatter. “Okay. Okay. I got this.” After one last swig of my drink, I slid from my stool and smoothed my embarrassingly sweaty hands over my jeans. “Just don’t barf,” I muttered to myself as I forced one foot in front of the other.

With every step I took, the floor seemed to creak loudly, announcing my impending arrival. Somehow, no one looked my way. My heart was pounding so loud in my head, I couldn’t even hear the litany of panic streaming through it. A blessing? Maybe.

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