Page 39 of Untying the Knot
Rolling my eyes, I set my third beer down—I know I said I’d only have one beer, but that changed quickly once Myla took off her sweater, leaving her in a low-cut tank top. Not to mention her ability to get me to focus on something other than baseball—my comfort zone. “You’re not going to let me ever live this down, are you?”
She shakes her head. “Never.”
Letting out a long, drawn-out sigh, I say, “Myla, you are easily the best competitor I’ve ever seen during a trivia night.”
“Best and . . .”
“Prettiest,” I answer.
Her smile stretches from ear to ear. “Ooo, I should have recorded that. Sounded like music to my ears.”
Nichole and Banner left about twenty minutes ago. Thankfully, we thought to claim they went to the bathroom so we weren’t disqualified. Not sure what Myla would have done if we weren’t allowed to compete anymore, especially since we were so far ahead in points compared to the other teams.
“Care to get some ice cream with me—my treat—or do you have to go tuck yourself in?”
Technically, it’s way past my preferred bedtime. I don’t ever stay up past eleven, but here I am, sitting in a bar at eleven fifteen, thinking about getting ice cream.
“Is Cold Stone still open?” I ask.
She tucks her gift card in her cleavage and says, “Oh, you’re so cute, Bisley. You thought I was going to let you use my gift card?” She shakes her head. “No, that’s just for me. But there is a convenience store around the corner that sells Drumsticks, and I have a hankering for one.” She hops off her stool. “You game?”
I should really get back to my apartment, but this evening has been about having fun. Hell, she looks so fucking good, standing there in her black jeans and black tank top with her sweater tied around her waist. I don’t want to go “tuck myself in” just yet. I haven’t seen this girl in four years. Sure, I’ve been out with, dated, and fucked other women, but a small part of me has always wondered what would happen if I messaged her again. Every time she made a new drink post, I thought about commenting. I thought about asking her how she was or if she ever considered visiting Chicago, but I held back because she’s always seemed so aloof. Like a butterfly that could never be caught.
So now that she’s standing in front of me, wanting to spend more time with me, I know exactly what my answer is.
“I would love some ice cream.”
“Good answer,” she says with a smile.
And then to my surprise, she takes my hand in hers and guides me out of the bar, her short frame leading the way. When we exit into the humid night air, she doesn’t release my hand but rather leans in closer to me.
“Are you a Drumstick fan?” she asks.
“Yeah. Never can go wrong with a Drumstick.”
“I would have assumed you were a strawberry shortcake kind of guy.”
“Why would you assume that?” I ask her.
“You’re not quite vanilla, definitely not commanding enough to be a chocolate lover, which leaves you as a strawberry shortcake.”
I pause and face her. “If you’re referring to how I fuck, then you’ve got me completely mislabeled. There’s nothing strawberry shortcake about me.”
Her eyes roam me again, more intensely this time. And when she’s done, she says, “Yeah, maybe I am mislabeling you, but I guess I won’t ever know.” Then she starts moving forward again.
I fall in line with her strides and drape my arm over her shoulders. “Yeah, you probably won’t,” I say, just to see her reaction.
“Firsthand experience with you in the sack, yeah, I think I’ll pass.”
“Same,” I say. “A night with you in my bed doesn’t quite scream a good time.”
“Not even close.” She reaches up to my hand on her shoulder and links our fingers together. “Glad we established that. Would hate to put in all this time just to get back to your place and be bored out of my mind while you attempted to pelvic thrust in my direction.”
“Yeah, saving ourselves a shit load of time.” I pull her in closer so her side is right up against mine.
When we turn the corner, the convenience store comes into view. I open the door for her, and she goes straight to the freezer section where the individually wrapped ice creams are. We each grab a Drumstick, and when she goes to pay at the register, I say, “I can take care of it.”
She holds her hand up to me. “No, this one is on me. I owe you after all.” She pulls a five from her back pocket and tells the cashier to keep the change before picking up our ice creams and walking out of the store.
