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Authors: Mimi Strong
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between us.
“I think the waitress is trying to get me drunk so I’ll give her a big tip.”
Drew turns to me, and just as I’m about to swallow, he says, with lusty fire in his eyes, “Do you think you can handle a big tip?”
Big tip. He means penis. The hand on my knee squeezes. I can’t swallow. Wine’s in my mouth.
He waggles his eyebrows.
My throat clenches, and the wine sprays from my mouth, in a perfect spray— perfect if you were, say, filming it, not perfect if you were hoping to stay dry during your visit to the pub. The wine lightly coats Drew’s handsome, GQ-pretty, lickable face, as evenly as a spray tan.
At least pinot grigio is a white wine. (Did you think, from the name, it was red? So did I, until this week.)
Across the table from me, Rory pushes her chair back and starts looking around urgently for the waitress.
Drew picks up a napkin from the table. Instead of wiping his face, he laughs and starts dabbing at my chin. I push his hand away. “Drew, don’t be intimate in front of Rory. You’ll make her head pop off.”
“I’m fine, you guys,” Rory says, which is about a seven on the white lie scale. “I’ve got to be up early, so I think I’ll call it a night.”
We’ve both finished eating our dinner, so I really have no excuse to beg her to stay. My only option, sadly, is the truth.
“Rory, you can’t go. Drew is in my self-help group, and we’re not allowed to be more than friends. But he’s wearing a tight-fitting shirt, and look at his face. Don’t you want to make a cake that looks like his face and eat it? You can’t leave me alone with him.”
She stands, her purse on her shoulder. “You’re a big girl,” she says, and then she leaves.
Drew uses the napkin to wipe his own face, then turns to watch Rory leave. He watches her just a few seconds too long, with his eyes just a little too low.
I grab his perfect GQ chin and turn his face back to mine. “If you look at Rory’s ass one more time, I will take you down. You’ll be eating peanut shells off the pub’s carpet, and there’s something else you should know. They haven’t served peanuts here in five years. That’s how far into the floor I’ll shove your face.”
He blinks. “I’ve never wanted to make love to a woman so badly as I do now.” He blinks again. “And that woman is you.” He blinks slowly, eyebrows raised like he’s having difficulty keeping me in focus.
“Are you drunk?”
“Noooooo.” He shakes his head emphatically. “I just had a few beers. Beer? Plural? Beers.”
I run his words through my internal slurr-o-meter. On a scale of one to ten on the slurr-o-meter, I’d say he’s at five.
His hand is back on my knee, or maybe it never left. The hand slides up, and it’s saying something. Mine. Mine, mine, mine.
My chest gets a fluttery feeling. It’s saying something, too. Yours. Yours, yours, yours.
“Drew, I really need my support group. It’s not for my personal problems, because I don’t have any personal problems, obviously, but going there makes me have more purpose in my life. I’ve always been good at counseling people when they come to the flower shop, whether it’s apology flowers or bereavement, or whatever. I just level with people, and they appreciate it. Usually. So, I don’t want to jeopar… leopard… jepper… damn this wine—”
I can’t finish what I’m about to say, because someone’s mouth is on my mouth.
Drew is kissing me.
Chapter 12
O’Flannagan’s pub disappears, like someone put it on mute.
His lips are just as kissable as they look, and I’m not exaggerating at all when I say Drew’s kisses could probably stop wars and lead humanity into a new golden age of enlightenment.
He keeps kissing me, his sweet, wine-soaked, amazing lips leading the way for mine, which are stunned but happy.
His hands move up, catching me firmly on the sides of my face, which is just the framework I need to keep me upright, because his kisses are
“I think the waitress is trying to get me drunk so I’ll give her a big tip.”
Drew turns to me, and just as I’m about to swallow, he says, with lusty fire in his eyes, “Do you think you can handle a big tip?”
Big tip. He means penis. The hand on my knee squeezes. I can’t swallow. Wine’s in my mouth.
He waggles his eyebrows.
My throat clenches, and the wine sprays from my mouth, in a perfect spray— perfect if you were, say, filming it, not perfect if you were hoping to stay dry during your visit to the pub. The wine lightly coats Drew’s handsome, GQ-pretty, lickable face, as evenly as a spray tan.
At least pinot grigio is a white wine. (Did you think, from the name, it was red? So did I, until this week.)
Across the table from me, Rory pushes her chair back and starts looking around urgently for the waitress.
Drew picks up a napkin from the table. Instead of wiping his face, he laughs and starts dabbing at my chin. I push his hand away. “Drew, don’t be intimate in front of Rory. You’ll make her head pop off.”
“I’m fine, you guys,” Rory says, which is about a seven on the white lie scale. “I’ve got to be up early, so I think I’ll call it a night.”
We’ve both finished eating our dinner, so I really have no excuse to beg her to stay. My only option, sadly, is the truth.
“Rory, you can’t go. Drew is in my self-help group, and we’re not allowed to be more than friends. But he’s wearing a tight-fitting shirt, and look at his face. Don’t you want to make a cake that looks like his face and eat it? You can’t leave me alone with him.”
She stands, her purse on her shoulder. “You’re a big girl,” she says, and then she leaves.
Drew uses the napkin to wipe his own face, then turns to watch Rory leave. He watches her just a few seconds too long, with his eyes just a little too low.
I grab his perfect GQ chin and turn his face back to mine. “If you look at Rory’s ass one more time, I will take you down. You’ll be eating peanut shells off the pub’s carpet, and there’s something else you should know. They haven’t served peanuts here in five years. That’s how far into the floor I’ll shove your face.”
He blinks. “I’ve never wanted to make love to a woman so badly as I do now.” He blinks again. “And that woman is you.” He blinks slowly, eyebrows raised like he’s having difficulty keeping me in focus.
“Are you drunk?”
“Noooooo.” He shakes his head emphatically. “I just had a few beers. Beer? Plural? Beers.”
I run his words through my internal slurr-o-meter. On a scale of one to ten on the slurr-o-meter, I’d say he’s at five.
His hand is back on my knee, or maybe it never left. The hand slides up, and it’s saying something. Mine. Mine, mine, mine.
My chest gets a fluttery feeling. It’s saying something, too. Yours. Yours, yours, yours.
“Drew, I really need my support group. It’s not for my personal problems, because I don’t have any personal problems, obviously, but going there makes me have more purpose in my life. I’ve always been good at counseling people when they come to the flower shop, whether it’s apology flowers or bereavement, or whatever. I just level with people, and they appreciate it. Usually. So, I don’t want to jeopar… leopard… jepper… damn this wine—”
I can’t finish what I’m about to say, because someone’s mouth is on my mouth.
Drew is kissing me.
Chapter 12
O’Flannagan’s pub disappears, like someone put it on mute.
His lips are just as kissable as they look, and I’m not exaggerating at all when I say Drew’s kisses could probably stop wars and lead humanity into a new golden age of enlightenment.
He keeps kissing me, his sweet, wine-soaked, amazing lips leading the way for mine, which are stunned but happy.
His hands move up, catching me firmly on the sides of my face, which is just the framework I need to keep me upright, because his kisses are
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