Page 41 of True Honey
“Alright, my turn. You take care of athletes, you seem to have a soft spot for the ones upstairs, but did you play baseball too?” I asked him, taking another sip. The whiskey went down better than hours spent studying.
“I’ve been playing since I could run,” Silas said. “Our family has interests and investments all over Harbor but my Grandfather only has one love and it’s the Hornets. I played five years with them, had the opportunity to go professional out of high school, but as nerdy as I sound, I wanted education.”
“Playing baseball your entire life left you stuck under your family's thumb,” I said with a nod. I didn’t understand the pressure he was under but I could sympathize with the feelings of letting someone down. I had been on that pedestal before, the fall sucks.
“I watched baseball tear the King family apart, I never wanted that life. I wanted to be able to fix stuff, hold people together, and create spaces where they felt safe.” Silas explained and I was slowly starting to understand him a little more. “What did you do before August was born?” He asked.
I hadn’t been asked that in a long time, and for a split second I almost couldn’t remember and then it came back in a strange, emotional wave that threatened to wash away all the walls that kept the darkness at bay.
“I taught art at an elementary school,” I said. “Easily the worst age group to teach art to.”
Silas chuckled. “Do you ever think about doing that again?”
I shook my head. “They’ve got more requirements for teachers now, my education wouldn’t get me hired. I never really wanted to do that, it was just a way to gain some independence in my life.”
His cautious approach to asking questions was twisting all my coherent thoughts and I knew that the whiskey was partially to blame, but I didn’t want him to stop.
COURTNEY
“Do you like music?” He asked as I was focusing on the drying strands of dark hair and the tingling sensation in my fingertips. “You must get through a lot in the car,” Silas said.
I shook my head gently. “Podcasts. We like crime podcasts. WellIdo. If August had his way he’d be buried with his headphones. He likes it loud,” I said.
“When I was his age,” Silas smiled, wetting his bottom lip as he leaned in, “I did too. It was the only thing that got me through studying. That and the lemon potatoes from the university cafeteria.”
“Is that your favorite food?” I asked him, squeezing my glass to keep my hands from shaking. It had been a while since I’d drank and I was quickly being reminded of my tolerance. I felt flirty and unburdened by my anxiety for the first time in years. It helped that Silas smelled like mint and sunshine, a mix of outdoors and something fresh.
It tickled my nose and made my head fuzzier than it already was.
“I think it was what kept the twenty-year-old me alive for about ten years…” Silas’s chest vibrated with a soft laugh. “If I had to pick it would be sour straws.”
“That is the favorite food of a child,” I said, lifting the glass to my lips.
“Hey, I didn’t judge your pickles,” he feigned offence.
“Pickles have nutrients,” I argued, my brows coming together in the center and my jaw tightening.
Silas inhaled, his chest rising slowly as he lifted his finger to rub the space between my brows to smooth out the frown lines. He stopped when his eyes met mine and retreated with a soft sorry from his lips.
“Can I blame the whiskey?” He asked, but he didn’t move away.
“Do you want to?” I countered.
“Do you always answer a question with a question?” He asked, reaching for the whiskey again. He had forgone the glass and was just sipping from the bottle, his lips damp as he pulled it away.
“Only when that question has serious implications and goes against our business agreement,” I giggled and a small hiccup of whiskey rose in my throat faster than I could get my hand over my mouth. “Sorry.”
“Is this alright?” Was his next question.
“The game of twenty questions?” I asked quietly, never breaking eye contact with him.
“The flirting?” He corrected, his jaw tightening as his eyes flickered across my face leaving a trail of heat from his gaze.
“Are we flirting?” I asked him.
He offered me a tiny huff, his eyes gleaming with genuine interest, “the whiskey isn’t doing me any favors but I could have sworn you were flirting with me.”
“Oh it was definitely the whiskey,” I said and lifted what was left in my glass to my lips.
