Page 32 of Maybe You

That’s self-sabotage taken to a whole new level.

“I could go for a drink,” I say decisively. I can turn this around. I don’t know how yet, but I will somehow do it.

EIGHT

We end up in a bar called Hotspot. At least that’s what the tired neon sign says. Sutton opens the door for me, and I go inside. There are people around, but not a ton of them, so I guess the name isn’t that accurate.

It’s a nice place, though. It’s not too fancy, so it makes me feel more at ease.

There’s a single bartender behind the counter. An older man, who’s drying the glasses with a pristine white towel.

Sutton heads toward him, and I follow.

The bartender looks up from the glass when we’re in front of the counter and grunts.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” he says gruffly, but there’s a lightness in his tone when he says it.

“Marlon,” Sutton says, nodding before he glances at me. “What do you want to drink?”

“Uh… Beer would be good?”

“Can we have two of those Czech ones with the unpronounceable name?” Sutton tells Marlon, and he produces two bottles from somewhere under the counter, opens them, and slides them toward us.

Once we’ve said our thank yous and have found a table, Sutton lifts the bottle toward me. “Cheers.”

We clink the necks and take a drink.

“It’s good,” I say when I put the bottle down.

“Marlon has different ones from all over the world. I’ve found out I’m partial to Czechia.”

“You come here often?”

“You sound surprised,” he says with a grin.

“Honestly? I wouldn’t have guessed this was your kind of place.”

“Aww. Look at you with your preconceived opinions about me.” He says it lightly, though. Most of what he says comes off lightly or as a joke. He takes another drink. “Steph works here, so Quinn dragged me with him when he was still chasing him.”

“Chasing?”

“Steph wasn’t exactly Quinn’s biggest fan.”

“Really?” I ask. “But they seem so happy.”

“They are. Just took them a bit to get there.”

I cock my head to the side and study him. “How long have you known Quinn?”

He takes another drink and just looks at me for a little while. So long that I think he’s not going to answer, but then he does.

“Close to twenty years.”

“That is a long time,” I say.

He just shrugs and leans back in his seat.

I try to relax into my own seat and not think too much about possibly sleeping with him. Provided I have the guts to ask him. It’s not even so much about the asking, but everything that supposedly comes after it. It’s probably not the right mindset to have when you’re sitting across the table from an impossibly sexy man, and the only thought you have in your head is, I kind of wish it could be done and over with already.

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