Page 13 of Whiskey Throttle
What I mistook for possibly offending him is lobbed back to me with a flirtatious comment. I glance at the glass in front of me, and he grins. His hand goes up in the air with the confidence of someone who’s never been told no. A server darts over.
“I’ll have what she’s having.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. Although I’ve seen him many times over the years, I can’t recall him being this forward and honestly fun. Then again, I never paid too much attention to my son’s friends, or really, the lack thereof. My children and I remind me of a solar system, orbiting around each other without much interaction. When we did, it would be a cosmic starburst of hurt feelings and unmet expectations.
“I was going to reply,” I offer, even though I don’t owe him anything.
He shakes his head, like he already knows.
“No, you weren’t.”
I open my mouth to object and swiftly close it. Polite society doesn’t reward such bluntness, another thing I find refreshing about him. He grew up in this. Same as I did, with far more expectations placed on him than on me. Cut from the same cloth, yet emerging into two radically different patterns.
“Fine. Truth be told, I wasn’t sure what to say. Or if I should say anything.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t make a habit of flirting with younger men who are my son’s friend.”
His smile twitches. Head tilts.
“You weren’t flirting?” he teases, calling me out in a way that’s dangerous.
“I said I don’t make a habit of it. Not that it didn’t happen.”
The server drops off his iced tea. Hollister doesn’t take a sip. He just leans forward, finally lowering his sunglasses onto the table with a soft clink. His eyes meet mine, full force.
“There are a lot of things I don’t usually do, and flirting with my best friend’s mom is usually not one of them. Yet here we are.”
He rests his arms on the table. A big no-no in etiquette. Something I’m sure he knows and yet intentionally violates.
“I haven’t stopped thinking about you since that night.”
I exhale slowly, reaching for my glass again.
“I was upset. It was an emotional moment.”
“You were breathtaking. Even with mascara on your cheeks and your hands trembling.”
“Charming,” I murmur, but the word falls apart in my throat.
Rarely did my ex-husband hold me as tenderly as he did. It’s been one of many things I can’t stop thinking about.
“You still haven’t said you’re not interested.”
“I haven’t said I am, either.”
His fingertips inch toward mine, brushing my pinky finger long enough to make his intention known.
“You don’t have to. I already saw it.”
That earns him a quiet, dangerous smile.
“Careful, Hollister. You may find that what you saw was vulnerability. Not desire.”
“I know the difference,” he quips, leaning back in his chair. His chin tilting toward the sun, peeking through the edge of the umbrella. “And so do you, Barbara.”
The silence stretches, thick and charged, between us as I sip from my tea under his intense stare. Only after I have thoroughly quenched the heat in my throat and body, do I reply with a candid answer of my own.
