Page 79 of Sharkbait
“Isn’t that hard? To run a bar?”
I take a sip of my drink.
“Not really. Think of it this way. It’s not difficult being a heterosexual male gynecologist, is it?”
Gatorade sprays out of my mouth with my unexpected laugh.
“I wouldn’t know, sir. I’ve never been a heterosexual male gynecologist. Have you?”
He looks out over the water, a devilish smirk on his face. “Have I been a heterosexual male? Yes. Still am, in fact. Have I ever been a gynecologist? No.”
He rips off a piece of his pretzel and takes a bite.
“Are you sure you’re not drunk right now? Because you’re not making a whole lot of sense.”
“Forget it. Hey, trivia girl, did you know that the invention Benjamin Franklin was most proud of was his ‘glass armonica,’ an instrument designed to replicate that spooky sound a wet finger makes when rubbed along the rim of a glass?”
“Of course I did. And are you flirting with me with that wet finger line?”
“Depends. Did it work?”
“No!” I laugh. “It’s official. You have the weirdest flirt game I’ve ever encountered. And don’t you dare change the subject on me! I’m invested in this conversation now. Tell me, sir, how is being an alcoholic bartender like being a heterosexual gynecologist?”
He slides down and rests his head on the back of the bench. “You’re not going to let this one go. Are you?”
“Nope!”
“Sobriety and beer.” He sighs. “Gynecology and vaginas.”
“Meaning?” I gesture for him to continue, knowing where he’s going with this, but really enjoying the process of torturing him.
“Meaning I can happily serve people beer all day without thinking about drinking. Just like a respectable doctor can attend to patients all day without thinking about...”
“Sex.” I finish the sentence for him.
“Exactly.”
“Well, I should hope so, you perv!”
I give him a playful slap to the shoulder, but when I go to pull my arm back, he catches it and holds.
Our eyes lock.
In one smooth motion, he hooks one arm under my legs, the other around my back, and slides me onto his lap.
“Well, aren’t you slick?” I say softly when we’re face-to-face.
“I have my moments.”
God he smells good.
Like soap and sea breeze and everything delicious under the sun.
I whisper, “Just so you know, James. For the future? Gynecology jokes aren’t usually the way into a girl’s pants.”
“I wasn’t trying to get in your pants.”
“Oh no?”
