Yeah, I’m definitely still drunk. How many martinis did I have?
I finish my glass of water and then pour another one.
He was so sweet to me. The way he spoke—all polite and rather old-fashioned as if he were courting me—was hot as hell. He asked me questions and then actually listened to the answers. He asked questions about the answers. We bantered. I love banter! He must have felt what I was feeling, right?
No, not necessarily.
He was just a nice bar owner taking care of a patron who had a bad evening. It was PR, that’s all. I’ve read too much into it, and getting my hopes up is not getting me anywhere.
“He gave me his phone number.”
Okay, that’s not just a casual thing, is it? He said he wanted me to call him. Do I want to do that?
“Yes. Yes I do.”
Is it too late to call? I check the phone for the time, and it’s nearly two o’clock. Yes, it’s too late to call, but what about a text? He might still be awake, especially if he had to stay until the club closed or something.
“But he owns it. He clearly wasn’t working there.”
Unless all of it was bullshit. How do I even know for sure?
“No, it was real. I’m sure he wasn’t lying. Everyone there certainly treated him like he was the owner.”
All right, a text then.
I place the napkin on the table beside my phone, gently flatten it out, and stare at the number on top. I enter his name and the number into my contacts and then open the messenger app on the phone. Now to come up with something to say without sounding like a complete idiot.
You are so fucking hot and I wish I had let you drive me home.
Delete.
I want to lick your stubble.
God, no. Delete.
I had a fabulous time tonight! You saved me from the douchebag, and I’m forever in your debt!
“That is waaaay too over the top.”
Delete.
Maybe I should not be doing this when I’m drunk.
“Keep it simple,” I mumble to myself.
It was really nice meeting you tonight. Thanks again for the drinks and the cab! -Cherry
“There! That’s it!” I let my finger hover over the send button for a good two minutes before I finally hit it. Before I can even blink, I can see he’s typing a response. I hold my breath until the message appears.
Nate O: It was my pleasure, Cherry.
“Nate-O.” I giggle.
I’m disappointed there isn’t more but then remind myself that he may very well be in bed and half asleep. I’m lucky to have heard back from him at all. I should wait and maybe send him another message tomorrow. Maybe even wait until Monday. If I wait, I won’t sound so eager.
I lick my lips and start to close out the phone when I see him typing another message. Again, I hold my breath.
I can see the little ellipses icon at the bottom of the text window, indicating typing, but then he stops with no message sent. I see the typing again but still no message. The third time, I have to take a breath, and finally a message comes through, and it’s a long one.
Nate O: I want to say a lot more, but I think the bourbon has me at a disadvantage. I don’t want to say anything offensive or, heaven forbid, become the victim of a horrible autocorrect accident, causing you to never speak to me again. I really enjoyed our time tonight, and I hope to see you again soon. Goodnight, Cherry.
Now I’m breathing and breathing heavily.
Why are those words so fucking hot? Why? There is nothing sexual in his words, but it still feels implied, and I don’t know what to make of it.
“Stubble.” I giggle again and then quickly cover my mouth with my hand. “Stop giggling!”
He said absolutely nothing that warrants the level of excitement I have, and I need to get a grip. He was being polite, that’s all, and I’m acting like a lovestruck teenager.
“You’re drunk and making way too much of this,” I say aloud. “Get your ass to bed.”
I type out one final message before putting the phone away.
Goodnight, Nate.
I pour the rest of my water into Vee’s pot and stumble to the bedroom. I crawl under the blankets, my mind still racing, convinced I’ll never fall asleep. I grab the phone and re-read the text a few more times, imagining his dark eyes, square jaw, and totally caressable stubble.
“That is not a word,” I mumble. “You’re being ridiculous. Stop it.”
I place the phone on the nightstand and roll away from it. The alcohol takes its toll, and I fall into a dreamless sleep.
In the morning, my head is pounding. Clearly, I did not drink enough water before I went to bed, and no number of pills is going to make up for it. It’s also Sunday, and I have no plans or chores I have to do. I was going to prepare for job hunting, but since I already have a lead, that seems rather pointless.
I moan as I roll out of bed and get myself more water and something for the headache. My laptop is sitting on the table, still open from last night. I log in, trying to remember why I had it out in the first
