Page 25 of The Accidental Honeymoon

Maybe he’s not as put-together as he pretends to be.

"One drink," I say.

His face lights up like a kid on Christmas morning andhe picks me up, spinning me around like I weigh nothing. I laugh and he grins. “You won’t be sorry.”

I put up my hands. “Just promise you’ll keep the tequila far away from me.”

Maybe I am playing with fire. But for now, the warmth feels nice.

At the Tin Shed Pub's 'Punxsutawney Phil's Prediction Station,' we take turns pulling a lever that supposedly predicts the future.

"Six more weeks of winter," Jay reads from the screen. "Looks like we're stuck in this for a while longer." He waggles his eyebrows.

"Stuck?" I say, crossing my arms. "I thought you were having fun."

“Look, this is the start of our honeymoon agreement.” He shrugs, a playful glint in his eye. "Maybe I'm worried you'll start enjoying being Mrs. Rustin a little too much."

"Your ego has to be so oversized if you really think that," I retort. "This is all strictly professional, Mr. Instagram."

He laughs. I can’t help but smile. The banter is starting to feel less awkward and more akin to slipping into a well-worn pair of shoes. When the crowd begins to move, I go along with it. Jay doesn’t say anything as he heads outside into the cold for the next stop on our crawl. But I can see him sizing me up, doing some kind of calculations.

What is he thinking about?

We move onto the next stop. As we walk, I notice that our crowd has thinned. People leaving early, I suppose. Like I should be doing right now… if only I weren’t having fun.

Manuel's Saloon is the oldest bar in Greater, with a historic landmark plaque to prove it. The place has a rugged charm, like an old cowboy who’s aged into a kindly grandfather. The walls are lined with vintage beer signs andassorted bric-a-brac. The tables are a mismatched collection of wood and metal. Everything I look at is scarred with the patina of decades of use.

Jay and I find seats at the back, where a makeshift stage has been set up for trivia night. The owner, Manuel, has a booming voice as he takes the microphone.

“Settle down, here,” he calls, his rural Georgia accent as thick and slow as molasses. “Y’all hush up so I can read the card.”

The crowd quiets. Manuel launches into the rules: teams will answer questions related to groundhogs, Groundhog Day, and the movie Groundhog Day. Wrong answers mean taking a drink. Right answers earn points. Eventually, prizes will be had.

Seems simple enough.

Jay leans in close. His breath is warm on my ear. “I hope you’re ready to drink. I’m terrible at trivia.”

I wrinkle my nose and smirk. “Don’t worry. I’ve got this.”

The first round starts as a waitress delivers a tray of drinks to our table. Jay picks one up, examining the amber liquid like a jeweler with a loupe. He runs the glass under his nose and then does a double take. “What is this, apple juice?”

I take a whiff of mine. “Smells fruity. Could be dangerous.”

“Let’s hope we don’t have to find out.” Jay rests his hand on my knee casually and all my thoughts are erased; I can only think about the warmth of his fingers against the denim of my jeans.

The emcee reads the first question: “What is the scientificname for a groundhog?”

Jay looks at me, wide-eyed and clueless. I blink. “What was the question?”

“I thought you were good at this!” he says. “He asked what the groundhog’s scientific name?—"

I press the buzzer and call the answer out. “Marmota monax.”

“Correct!” the emcee says. “Also known as a woodchuck. How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?”

The crowd groans at the bad joke. Jay on the other hand is just staring at me, dumbfounded. “How did you know that?”

I shrug. “I have no idea. The answers just embed themselves in my brain, lying dormant until the moment the question is read aloud.”

---