She practically skips ahead of me to the counter. “Don’t forget, you owe me a game now, too, Nick Hammer. I want a rematch with you.”
“You’re on,” I say, because at least rematch means more, and that’s what I want most.
She bends to unlace her shoes, and when she stands, she slaps them on the counter. “Oh hey,” she says, and her face lights up.
“Harper Holiday!” The guy behind the counter clearly knows her. He’s got dark hair, straight teeth, and brown eyes that he can’t take off Harper. Christ, is there any man in Manhattan who doesn’t want her?
“Hey, Jason, how are you? I haven’t seen you since—”
“Senior year,” he supplies with a smile, as he takes the shoes.
“This is my friend, Nick,” she says and squeezes my arm again. “He went to Carlton Prep, too. But he was a senior when we were freshman.”
“Hey, man. I remember you. You were always drawing comics, hunched over a notebook,” he says with a grin as he hands me my Chucks.
“That’s me,” I say, and I hope he leaves it at that. Not that I hated high school. Not by any stretch, ’cause I’m just not a hater. And honestly, being the quiet guy was not the worst fate. I had plenty of friends. But I was completely a cipher when it came to girls.
“Your shit was good,” he adds, and I straighten my shoulders and tell him thanks. This guy isn’t so bad after all.
“I had no idea you worked here,” Harper says.
He holds out his hands and gestures around. “All the time. This is my place. My little patch of land.”
“No kidding! You run Neon Lanes?” she asks, sounding thoroughly impressed as she slips on the pair of short boots he’s handed her, and I finish lacing my shoes.
“Own and operate.” He taps the counter. “I do a little bit of everything. Be sure to say hi next time you’re here. And hey, are you on Facebook?”
“I am.”
“Look me up. Friend me. Let’s catch up,” he says.
As we walk away, I stare at her. “You do realize he likes you?”
“What?” she asks, like I’ve just told her monkeys live on Jupiter.
“Yes. He likes you.”
“You’re crazy,” she says, shaking her head.
“You’re a trip, Harper. You have no clue sometimes. It’s fucking adorable,” I tell her, and then, because we came as friends and we’re leaving as friends, but in case any of these other assholes who want her might be watching, I drape an arm around her.
“Seriously, Nick. Why do you say that?”
I tug her closer, and she goes with it, letting me. “Princess Clueless, you’re about to get an education in all the things you’re oblivious to.”
5
We grab two stools at Speakeasy, a kick-ass spot in Midtown. The bartender, Julia, slides us two coasters and takes our order.
Julia’s married to the guy who owns the law firm I use for all my contracts. That’s Clay Nichols. He runs the shop, and is pretty much Manhattan’s most fearless entertainment lawyer. His cousin Tyler joined him recently. Tyler’s a beast, too, and handles the day-to-day for me. He’s absolutely the guy I want having to deal with Gino.
Julia pours me an Imperial Stout and then mixes the drink Harper ordered, which is made with tequila and lemon soda.
“And one Long-Distance Lover for your friend, coming right up,” she says with a wink to us both, as I give her my credit card.
Julia shakes her head, sliding the plastic back to me. “Your money’s no good here, handsome.”
“Please. I insist,” I say, trying again.
She stares me down. “As if you can pull the whole I insist act with me. It’s a rule. No client of Nichols and Nichols shall ever pay for his libation. Now, enjoy your drink with your pretty redheaded friend,” she says, then hands Harper the cocktail.
“Hope you enjoy it. By the way, love your hair,” she says, and it’s funny because Julia’s redhead comment doesn’t bother me—she means it as a compliment, since her hair is the same shade, while Gino meant it in a douchey Neanderthal way. Kind of like how he means everything.
“Thank you,” Harper says, running her hand along her locks. She let her hair down when we left the bowling alley. “Same for you.”
“It’s true what they say. Redheads have more fun. So be sure to have fun,” she says, then presses her hand to Harper’s arm before she heads off to serve a new group of customers.
Harper looks at me, surprise in her eyes. “She’s quite friendly.” She brings the drink to her lips, and takes a long sip. Her eyes widen and she points to the glass as she swallows. “She makes good drinks, too. This is amazing.”
“She’s not an award-winning bartender for nothing. They have the best drinks at Speakeasy. Just don’t tell your brother we’re here,” I joke, since Spencer and Charlotte own three bars in Manhattan.
She pretends to zip her lips. “Our secret is safe with me,” she whispers, and as soon as those words ghost past her lips, I find myself wondering if we’ll ever have other secrets, like about the things we crave, the things that drive us wild, that turn us on in the dark, and if hers would match mine.
“By the way, did I do okay as your shield tonight?”
“You were the best,” I tell her, then I take a long swallow of my drink. Damn, the beers here are spectacular, too.