Page 23 of Georgia: Britain's Story: Part 1
“Yeah, right now. Why not? You gotta date or something?” His tone is teasing.
“Well, for one,” I motion to my face. “And two,” I use the same hand to motion down the length of my body.
“You look great, and trust me, you’ll fit right in around here, especially dressed like that.” He sounds so sincere, I’m really considering it. Maybe a bit of human interaction is the healthier approach to my crappy day.
“Okay,” I say, “on one condition.”
“Hit me with it.”
“You have to change out of your suit and put on sweats, too.” The words have barely left my lips when he says, “Done.”
“Meet me back here in five minutes, okay?” he asks.
“Will do,” I reply with a sheepish smile. The embarrassment of crying into his shirt is settling in, which reminds me, I’ve got five minutes. I should probably attempt to fix my face. God knows what it looks like.
Five minutes later I’m closing the apartment door behind me. I’ve traded my slippers for a pair of Veja sneakers. I applied some perfume, fixed my makeup (well, what was left of it), and put on some lip balm.
He’s already waiting at the bottom of the steps for me. If seeing him in a suit was hot, seeing him in sweats sets my core on fire. His plain white t-shirt is molded to his upper body displaying muscles I certainly don’t know the names of. His gray sweats sit low on his hips and I lick my lips in response to the sight. He’s holding a sweatshirt to his side and smiling at me like he’s so fucking glad that I’m here with him, and I return the gesture. When I get to the base of the stairs, he takes my hand, leading me to the passenger side of his car. He opens my door and closes it behind me once I’m seated. It's the strangest feeling, but I think I’m glad to be here with him, too.
EIGHT
Liam
I can’t believe Britain’s sitting in the passenger seat of my car. Right now. It’s like getting struck by lightning, twice. What are the odds?
I can’t stop myself from looking over at her any chance I get. It’s only a 6-minute drive from the house to the restaurant, but apparently I can’t keep my hands to myself when it comes to her because I reach over to her side of the car and rest my hand on her thigh. I give her a gentle squeeze with my hand to get her attention, and when she doesn’t shy away from my touch, I don’t remove it even when she turns her head to look at me.
It’s like my body is operating independently of my brain. I’m not mad about anything I’m doing, it’s just that I don’t even think about what I’m doing until it’s done. Like hugging her and kissing the top of her head when she was crying. It’s just instinctual. When I saw the tears in her eyes, something in me caved in, and I needed her way more than she needed me to console her.
I meant what I said when I said sorry. Iamreally fucking sorry. She didn’t say the words that she forgives me, but I feel like her agreeing to get dinner with me is a step in the right direction. Seeing the hurt on her face tonight, it makes me want to do things for her. Anything to make up for my actions all those years ago. God, I hope I get the chance. I’m sitting here looking at her when I realize I squeezed her leg to get her attention. I should probably ask a question or say something. Anything.
“So, that’s a nice Porsche you’re driving.” As soon as it’s out of my mouth, I immediately realize how lame that sounded.Really Liam, you’re trying to talk to her about her car?
“Yeah, it, um…it was a consolation prize.” She pauses, thinking over her next words. “His assistant got an engagement ring, and I got a Porsche.”Shit. Definitely the wrong thing to talk about then. I squeeze her leg again, gently, and say, “I’m sorry,” but I’m not. I'm glad, and incredibly relieved that she’s single. But then I’m also pissed that he hurt her.What the fuck is going on with me?
She just smiles and responds with, “I’m not.” All it takes is those few words and a heat starts growing in my stomach, and heading straight for my groin.I’m fucked.
“Well, now that I’ve royally screwed that up,” I say. Thankfully she laughs at my attempt to come back. “Why don’t you choose where we go tonight? You have two options — choose wisely,” I advise with mock authority.
“Okay, you’re going to have to help, though, seeing as I haven’t eaten at one of them, ever. And the last time I had Maggio’s was when I was ten.”
“Maggio’s is exactly the same now as it was then. The beer’s cold and the pizza’s even better. The restaurant, Colton’s, is surprisingly good for being a middle-of-nowhere lake town. Cocktails are passable, but their top-shelf selection is good. They have different specials every day. I highly recommend getting it; you’ll never eat the same thing twice. Oh, and they have a jukebox.”
“This is good intel. But tell me this, which one has better people watching?” A girl after my own heart.
“Colton’s, hands down. If some of the regulars are there, there’s a high probability you’ll witness an impromptu line-dancing lesson.”
“Oh my god, yes!” she practically squeals.
“You have chosen wisely, grasshopper,” I say in all my infinite wisdom.
The inside of Colton’s hasn’t changed much over the years. The owners have come and gone, but none of them ever seem to do much to the interior. The vibe is veryif it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.Nearly every inch of the space is knotty pine, from the booths, to the tables, to the bar top.The walls are all exposed log covered in lit-up neon. Booths line the perimeter of the space, with seats all upholstered in camel-colored leather. There’s a couple tables in the middle of the large dining area, which also doubles as the dance floor. And then there’s the main event, the bar. It takes up nearly the entire back half of the building aside from the kitchen. In the summer, it’s standing room only, but tonight’s a good mix of open tables and bar space, but still a healthy crowd. Hopefully this appeases Britain’s desire to people watch.
This is a seat-yourself establishment, so I motion for Britain to choose her pick of the litter. Before she even decides I know where it’s going to be, the bar. She moves over and picks a spot with buffer spaces on either side of our two stools. She wants to be in it, but she also wants to be able to hear her date talk.Is this a date?
“Is this spot okay?” She looks at me with a smile.
“It’s perfect,” I say, taking her in as she hops up on to the stool. Her eyes are roving all over the place, soaking it all up. And she’s got her gorgeous smile out for everyone to see, like she’s happy to be here. I love that she’s wearing sweats right now. I don’t think I’ve ever worn sweats on a date before, but somehow I don’t feel a bit out of place or uncomfortable so dressed down.Why do I keep referring to this as a date?
