Page 32 of Girls Will Be Girls
I think he’d be so impressed he’d marry you on the spot!
Buck:
Don’t get my hopes up…
Once the sun dropped behind the trees, I ventured a glance over to Lou’s side. There was still no sign of him though. I felt like an avid Sasquatch hunter trying to catch a glimpse of him.
I guess he is here for work, so he’s probably been out schmoozing politicians, or whatever it is he does all day.
Now I’m just sitting here, mind battling over whether I should be good and head to the tourist hot spots or if I should just head to something familiar two doors down. This war in my brain has been raging for so long, I’m not even sure what time it is.
Fuck it.
I throw on a light and airy blue satin dress — thank you, Frida — doing my best to look like an effortlessly stunning classic Hollywood starlet. It’s still so hot out that I need a forgiving material. I smear on some tinted moisturizer, concealer, bronzer, and a slight highlight, being thankful for the high-maintenance things I do to stay low-maintenance, like getting my brows and lashes done, and then head out the door.
On my way in, I notice a sign that says“Hot Wing Taster Board,”and I know it’s the universe telling me that I need to live out my fantasy of being Jennifer Lawrence onHot Onesright now. It’s a literal sign.
As I walk in, Willie gives me a one-fingered salute while shaking a drink, and I can see what Buck means.
Willie reminds me of Luke fromGilmore Girls, but if Luke was a bartender, a little bit more intimidating, and didn’t wear a baseball cap. Willie has far too luscious hair to hide it.
The bar’s busier than before. I guess the last time I was here it was 3 PM on a Thursday, so probably not prime time compared to a Friday night. Most of the bar stools are taken,with people also standing around the round high-top tables scattered through the room. There are a few smaller booths free in the corner, so I snag one for myself. I slide across the red leather, taking a look at their three-item menu.
Hot wings
Hot wings taster board
French fries
As I’m figuring out how to strategically save my table while I order at the bar, Lou walks up and stands by me, literally taking my breath away like the sad sap that I am.
He taps the table with his fingers.“Hey, neighbor.”
I feel like my brain is taking a second to find the words — not even find them, repeat them — because oh mama, does this boy know how to rock the business casual look. He looks like Jim fromThe Office, but in that other show where he’s that CIA analyst spy guy, with the stubble, perfectly messed hair, and looking ridiculously rugged.
His cream button-up hugs his body in a way that can’t be legal, his sleeves turned up like he’s finally off the clock, and those dark blue pants are just aching to show him off.
I shamelessly ogle him for a beat too long, then look back up at his face. He’s still smiling, but there’s a knowing little smirk in there now when he takes a swig of his beer.
I smile back as innocently as I can. “Hi.”
“You eaten?” He asks.
I shake my head. “I was just about to go order.”
“Here?” He asks genuinely.
“Yeah, gotta know what this taster board is like.”
“Can I join you?” He taps the table again, closer to me this time. “You can say no.” He smirks.
I smile back. “Only if you get your own taster. I’m not sharing.”
He grins. “Great, be right back.” He stumbles for a second. “You want a drink?”
“Oh.” I rise out of the booth a little. “I can get my own.”
“You’ll get it next time.” He waves me off. “Drink?”
