“Jinx, you owe me a drink,” we’d then said in unison.
That had sealed the deal on our plans. In college, we were beer snobs, and we used to joke at parties that we’d open our own bar someday, and we’d kick ass at it because we could tell the difference between quality beer and the swill from a keg. Hardly a special skill, but even so, that was what got us rolling.
Once we graduated, we went in different directions work wise, even though we stayed close friends. I launched my app, and Charlotte snagged a plum gig in business development at a Fortune 500 company. The hours were ruthless, though, the environment was cutthroat, and there wasn’t a single ounce of enjoyment. She was miserable but determined not to wallow in it, so she started making plans to do what she loved—run a business based on fun, being social, and hanging out with friends. When she gave notice, she asked me if I was ready to do what we’d talked about the night we’d vowed never to drink keg beer.
“I’ve been squirreling away my yearly bonuses. Want to open a bar in midtown with me?”
Flush with cash from the sale, and ready for a new adventure, I’d said yes in seconds. “Can we name the bar after the dogs we had as kids?”
“Hell yeah.”
The rest is history. The Lucky Spot is profitable and has expanded to three locations, and we have a blast running it together.
Charlotte and I reminisce about our early days in business as Gin Joint fills up. The door opens, and a group of pretty, sexy ladies wearing slinky jeans and heels that go on forever pour in. Somewhere in the back of my mind, a part of me says to check them out, but the thought vanishes almost as quickly as it appears.
Charlotte finishes her old-fashioned just as my bourbon disappears. We move on to seconds as we talk about our most memorable customers over the years. The conversation is free and easy, and it reminds me of why we work so well as friends, and why it’s so much better for our friendship if we don’t ever practice kissing again. Because I don’t want to give this up. She’s the person I can most be myself with, and I like just chilling here with her. We didn’t do a ton of this when Bradley Dipstick was in the picture.
Like she can read my mind, Charlotte sighs happily and says, “I missed doing this with you when I was with that jackass.”
“I was thinking the same thing.”
She tilts her head and looks up at me. “Really?” The expression on her face is one of wonder and surprise. “So it works, then?”
“What works?” I ask curiously.
She runs a finger along the side of my hair. “The device I implanted in your head so I could read your mind,” she says in mock seriousness.
I laugh and squeeze her shoulder. “You got me. Next round on me.”
“The entire night better be on you.”
“It is. And yes, I missed this, too—hanging with you when you were with him.”
“Going to your house. Binge watching TV shows, eating gummy bears or lemonheads, and drinking tequila or wine, depending on what we decided went best together.”
“We really are quite savvy at our candy-liquor pairings.”
“We are.” Charlotte sighs happily and scoots closer, almost like she’s going to cuddle with me. “You know, this might sound weird, but I’m glad I caught him screwing that woman. Buying a place with him would have been such a mistake. It was like someone was looking out for me, in a weird way. Does that sound crazy?”
“Not at all.”
“If I were with him—engaged to him and living with him—I wouldn’t be able to do this with you.”
At first I’m sure she means hanging out. But when I feel a brush of her hand against my leg, I wonder if she means something else.
I look down, and her palm is spread across my thigh. Interesting. I’m honestly not sure when that happened, or why I didn’t notice it before, but her hand is warm, and it feels good, and I suppose I’m getting used to her touching me. Maybe that’s why I didn’t realize she’s been touching me the last few minutes as we’ve been chatting. I’ve quickly grown accustomed to her hands on my body.
When the waitress strolls by, Charlotte calls her over, and orders a gin and tonic. By the time it arrives five minutes later, Charlotte’s hand is no longer resting on my thigh. It’s moving. She strokes little lines along my leg, and this isn’t just handsy anymore. This is something else entirely.
I’m caught off guard and completely unprepared for this side of Charlotte—the nighttime, after hours Charlotte, who is very much touching me like we are together, even though there’s no audience now.
“Spencer,” she says, and her voice is all floaty and happy, “I’m so glad we went into business together.”
Okay, that makes sense. She’s in one of those happy-go-lucky tipsy moods where she gushes about life being good. I can handle this. She takes a sip of her drink, sets down the glass, and shifts closer. As she moves nearer, so do her fingertips, as they migrate higher up my leg.
Whoa.
Was not expecting all this hand action, nor the subtle path she’s taking.
“Yeah. Me, too.”
Her fingers brush higher on the fabric of my pants. She’s getting friendlier. Much friendlier. Just how strong are these drinks?
“I was so miserable before we started it, and now I love what I do,” she says, and her hand on my thigh suddenly acquires a mind of its own. Or hormones of its own. Because it is on a one-way path to my dick. And it’s like someone cranked up the heat in the bar. “Do you know why else I’m glad I’m not with Bradley?”