Page 41 of Pour Decisions
It’s fine. This is fine. She’s allowed to go on dates. Didn’t we say we were friends? Just friends?
Everything felt so logical after that night. We fooled around, realized we were making the same mistakes of the past, and decided on a rational path forward. I fucked up our first chance together, and she doesn’t want to risk a second one. But any shred of rationality has flown out the window.
I don’t want her to go on this date. I don’t want to wake up tomorrow and find that she’s stayed the night somewhere else. I don’t want another man to peel off this pretty peach-pink dress and touch and taste her the way I’m fucking dying to.
My face doesn’t say it’s fine at all, and she locks eyes with me in the mirror. She blinks, then looks down at the sink.
“We decided we were friends, JD” she says softly, arranging some stuff on the counter in front of her but not picking anything up.
“I know.” I swallow.
“So what’s with the look on your face?” She raises an eyebrow. “I can go on a date with someone.”
“Doesn’t mean I like the idea,” I say before I can reconsider.
“That’s too bad.” Her jaw tightens a little bit and she presses her plush lips together like she’s trying to stop herself from saying something.
“I need to go anyway.” I check my phone and avoid the look she’s giving me. “See you later.”
I leave off thetonightand make my way to my car before we can bicker about it further. The drive into town is too short for me to fully get my head on right, so I sit in the parking lot for a second. I have to park far. There must be some event going on in town because every single spot I’d normally go to on a busy night is full.
I review the short bio of Judd Wright, one of the men we’re meeting with, that my assistant sent me. He’s basically my dad—the son of a founder of a chain of liquor stores, close to retirement, with a son who’s a bit older than me. His son, Wilson, is following in his footsteps.
I blow a breath out through my nose. I’m not sure what we’ll discuss, but I know I have a long night ahead.
I go into the restaurant, which is bustling with activity even this early. It’s odd seeing the people of Jepsen dressed in theirfiner clothes in a dark, more formal setting. Every other spot in town is pretty casual. A host points me to where Dad, Judd, and Wilson are. They already have drinks, and Wilson is laughing at something.
He looks like a douchebag, honestly, but I can work with that.
“John David. Finally here,” Dad says. I discreetly check the time. I’m not late, but apparently that’s not good enough. “Meet Judd and Wilson Wright.”
I shake their hands and take a seat, which faces the rest of the room.
“We were just talking about how good it is to have such local presence.” Dad holds up his glass. “They serve our bourbon.”
“Yeah, it’s great.” I glance over the menu.
Wilson is chatty and starts talking, so I just nod along and listen. He’s exhausting, and the idea of working with him any more than I absolutely have to makes me want to drown myself in this bourbon cocktail. It isn’t particularly good either, so I sip at it slowly.
My eyes start to drift across the restaurant. Couples, their age range skewing a bit older, are most of the crowd, with a few groups of friends and maybe families.
And Katrina, standing near the door with a man I don’t recognize.
I tense and look away for a moment before I look back against my better judgment. I hardly take in a single detail about the guy she’s with besides the fact that I don’t want him there, and that he’stouchingher. His hand is just low enough on her back to be flirty, but not so low that it’s impolite. At least to most people.
The surge of ugly possessiveness that comes over me nearly doubles me over. I’m well aware that she’s dated other men—married another man—but knowing and seeing are two different things. And the latter is going to fucking kill me.
It just feels wrong to see, period.
The feelings are so ugly and illogical and instinctual. Wejusthad a conversation about this, and she was annoyed that I was possessive.
I take a long sip of my terrible cocktail and force myself to focus on the conversation at hand.
My focus lasts for all of fifteen seconds.
Does she like this guy? She’s smiling, but she always smiles. Is it a genuine one?
I nod along and mirror what Dad does, my mind completely elsewhere. I watch everything Katrina eats and drinks. Every reaction and micro expression that could confirm or deny that she’s having a decent time with some other guy. No matter how many times I tell myself she’s doing what’s probably best for us both.
