Page 2 of Sincerely Yours, Anna Sherwood

There’s a mirror set behind the bar. It reflects a colourful collection of liquor bottles and the rainbow lights of the club – and a pale girl with flushed cheeks and smudged makeup, loose strands of bright orange hair limp and sticking to the sides of her face, a dribbleof spilled rum and Coke staining a white blouse that belongs in an office, not on a night out.

I hardly recognize myself, and tear my eyes away.

A few songs later, I’ve had no luck getting the bartender’s attention, always interrupted by someone louder and pushier and then having to wait my turn again, but somehow missing it each time.

An elbow knocks into mine. I glance over on instinct, then do a double take.

It’s him. It’s Cute Guy From Across The Bar.

Oh, God.

He looks even more attractive up close. He’s even got the little Clark Kent curl lying across his forehead and everything. I look at his sleeves, which somehow seem to have made it through leaning on the bar unscathed, which is, just … witchcraft.

He’s staring at me.

Me.

Although, I suppose, that is probably only because I’m staring at him. I’d probably try to stare down a weird stranger to call their bluff, too.

But then he opens his beautiful, Cupid’s bow mouth and leans in close enough to speak near my ear so he doesn’t have to yell over the music and he says, ‘You know, the secret is a little patience. Here.’

Cute Guy stands up straight. He’s a couple of inchestaller than me and ooh, those cheekbones. Those curls, too. The kind you want to run your fingers through – the kindIwant to run my fingers through. His hair looks inky blue in the lighting, shining like liquid moonlight.

A moment passes, then two, then he catches the bartender’s eye and gestures with his index and middle finger, lifting his hand slightly. He nods, but when I look back at the bartender, they’re serving drinks to someone else.

I twist around to scowl at him. ‘What the hell was that supposed to be?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Is this your way of picking up girls?’ I ask him, the words tumbling out before I can second-guess them. ‘You swan in with this failed attempt at chivalry to order their drinks for them? Emphasis onfailedattempt.’

He quirks one eyebrow up, his mouth sliding into a bemused smile.

‘You know your shirt’s wet,’ he tells me, a pointed look at my soggy, sticky sleeve.

And then the bartender is standing opposite us asking, ‘What can I get you guys?’

I shoot Cute Guy a glower – it’s not lost on me that he’s smirking to himself and smug as anything rightnow – and ask the bartender for three cups of water. I’m parched.

My new friend gets himself a Heineken, and after he’s paid for it and we’ve got all our drinks, he nods at my collection of waters in plastic cups.

‘Enjoy. Have fun with your friends.’

‘Huh? Oh, no. These are for me.’

I neck each of them, chugging it down, and I feelhumanagain. The effect is much better than any booze.

Cute Guy laughs at me when, horrifyingly, I knock all three empty cups over as I put the last one down. His hands brush mine as he takes over from me and sets them back upright for the bartender to collect, and something electric rushes through me from the contact. I suddenly become all too aware of my body, feeling awkward and unsure in a way I’m not used to. I can’t remember what I’d normally do with my hands, or how I usually stand, and it has everything to do withhim, not some alcohol-induced clumsiness.

When he speaks, it’s once again with his mouth close to my face. He doesn’t shout, and it feels like we’re in a bubble all of our own, where the music becomes muted and distant, oddly intimate in a way that sends a shiver down my spine.

‘Successful attempt, then.’

‘What?’

Cute Guy gestures with his beer bottle at the cups. ‘My attempt at “chivalry”,’ he adds air quotes around the word, ‘in helping you get the bartender’s attention. It was successful.’

‘Hmmph. Sure.Yes.’ And then, because I suppose I owe him that much, I add through my teeth, ‘Thank you.’

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